


Strange Comradery in Arkham

by Vampowerment



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Character Study, Gen, M/M, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24036859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampowerment/pseuds/Vampowerment
Summary: Bruce Wayne checks himself into Arkham because he considers himself a danger to himself and others, but only Joker seems to understand why.Slowburn, deep exploration of Bruce's mental health, his obsession with being Batman, why he lives his life the way he does. How nine years of being Batman affects how he views the world, processes emotions, and the impact that has on others. There is a focus on his bond with Joker in particular, but not exclusively.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 40
Kudos: 243





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I normally don't publish works until every part is entirely finished, that way I can go back and edit from the beginning after I finish the first draft, so consider this a preview. I just really like it so far and wanted to share. The rest of the fic will probably be up within a month, especially with the added motivation feedback will hopefully give me. I will most likely do another pass through or so with the editing before then, but when I post the rest I will add a note stating whether or not the edits are enough to warrant a reread. I hope you enjoy this, because it's probably my favorite thing I've written so far.

The dull, beige walls felt like they were closing in on him. His cell was larger than most, perks of being a Wayne he supposes, but the monotony was wearing on him more than he thought it would. He was well aware of Arkham Asylum’s reputation, and even more aware of all the truth to it. He had been in the asylum more times than he can count, he had seen how corrupt much of the staff had been and how awful some of the conditions are. Though he’s tried his best to finance and oversee improvements, he is really only one man. He forgets that. He always seems to forget that, to think he’s capable of all of the impossibilities he pulls off and more, and does not think about everyone he is hurting. 

He checked himself into Arkham Asylum last week. In theory he could have done his research and had himself checked into a good psych ward, one without the horrible reputation and without all of the people he’s played a role in trapping there, but he cannot imagine himself doing so. No, if he is hurting everyone in his life, what he needs to ground himself is to go where he’s basically driven his friends. To confront many of the people he’s hurt without them even knowing it’s him. Then, when he’s satisfied, he will check himself back out and don his cowl again, stable.

Batman can’t exist if he’s stable, that’s a lie. He will never be in a good place, but he can get comparatively better. He can look his demons in the eyes, and justify his actions. He faked an explosive incident as Batman, so people will assume the reason Batman isn’t patrolling is purely due to physical injuries. He ensured Gordon through his comm that he was ok, the public can’t think Batman is dead. He transferred control of his bank account to Alfred. He hoped the note he left was enough, but when Alfred showed up during visiting hours the slap in the face was enough to know Alfred had assumed the worst. In retrospect, he should have been more specific than,  _ “Alfred, I transfered complete control of my bank account to you. Please take care of the manor while I’m gone. I love you and I hope you understand my decision. Goodbye,” _ especially given the fact his mental health and history of self destructive behaviors caused the decision in the first place. Alfred was told that his anger is a distraction and to limit his visitations in the future. Bruce apologized and Al gave him a world weary look he’s seen far too many times. “Do try to get better, Master Bruce. I respect your decision, but I want the next time I see you to be in the car on our way home.”

It didn’t take much to check in. He used a few lines about his professional diagnoses, his PTSD leading to him being a danger to himself and others and all that. It was hard to open up without revealing his secrets. He expected this, he knew it would be hard, but the sheer amount of his life that was overtaken by Batman was more evident while he was attempting to explain it. Eventually he struck at the core of it: being unable to save his parents led to his need to save everyone else. If he used the philanthropy angle, a few things about bombed galas, he could preserve his identity while working through the emotional core of everything. Finally when he talked about sneaking away with the unshakable feeling that he needed to dismantle the bomb himself, they accepted that he was a danger to himself and others. 

The one on one therapy sessions were not very effective. He’s had therapy with Doctor Thompkins most of his life, and he’s told her the details of his other life. Sessions became more and more spread out over recent years until they stopped all together. The city is always in danger, and either Bruce Wayne or Batman is always needed. Al insists he sleeps at least a little, so he had to cut most things out. Sleeping every night at Arkham has been hard. He’s so accustomed to constant strenuous physical activity with two hours of sleep, that Arkham’s comparatively relaxed schedule makes it impossible for him to sleep without laying in bed for hours. 

Batman has met Doctor Leland, and she is the best doctor in the entire facility. She genuinely cares about her patients and believes in her ability to make progress with all of them. She listens to and respects them all, causing her to have genuine success cases in a way most other doctors in the place have not. Bruce respects her, but barely tells her anything. He knows what he can’t say, and in weaving his story around that, he has a hard time being genuine. He’s careful to tell the truth, even if it’s selective, but she knows he’s holding back and he knows he will never not be. It’s frustrating for both parties, but her warm smile and seemingly limitless patience never wavers. 

It’s a few days before Bruce is allowed in the rec room. A majority of inmates are allowed to interact with heavy security, including his rogues gallery, so he had to be deemed able to handle it for his own safety, which is honestly funny to him. He thinks about this while playing solitaire at an empty table, aware of the fact most eyes are on him except for Harvey Dent, who is pointedly avoiding eye contact. He hears a distant, distinctive laugh and his head jerks up from the cards.

Joker’s eyes lock with Bruce Wayne’s the moment he’s walked into the rec room. He freezes, causing the guards walking him to bump into him, but before they can yell at him, he begins howling with laughter. The guards grab him immediately, restraining him against the wall. Several patients look up with fear, knowing what his laughter normally means. Others groan and cover their ears, knowing that his laughter is constant and obnoxious. Bruce recognizes it as a laugh of joyous surprise, filled only with humor and not with malice.

“Oh don’t lose your skin, I was just surprised to find  _ Bruce Wayne _ in a place like this.” The Joker scoffs, and the guards make him continue his walk to the corner with a small TV. They turn on some classic cartoons, and stay around him in a circle, so Joker mostly keeps his eyes on the screen. He occasionally manages a glance over to Bruce Wayne, who can’t look away. Even from across the room, Bruce can see longing in Joker’s eyes, daring him to approach. He can’t stay away for long. He gives up his game of solitaire. 

“Relax, fellas, I just want to introduce myself. You can grant me that, can’t you?” Bruce protests when the guards block him off from Joker.

“This guy is bad news, rich boy, you’re playing with fire here.”

“I have more experience with danger than you might think.” Bruce replies with a wink. The guards groan and step aside, not wanting to deal with him anymore and not caring enough to really protest.

“Your funeral, Wayne.” Bruce ignores them.

“Bruce Wayne. I don’t think we’ve met.” He says and extends his hand. Joker looks at it and then back down at his straightjacket pointedly before laughing. It’s clear he genuinely finds it funny, but isn’t at all happy about being restrained.

“My, my, are you sure we haven’t met before? I feel like I would have danced with someone of your caliber at least once. Some dark night…” He grins, “Oh, maybe at a gala? Maybe a masquerade! I know I’ve crashed one of those, it would have been hard for us to properly see each other’s faces around the masks…” Joker’s grin widens, “Of course, I could be wrong. It’s hard to keep billionaires straight in this town!” He laughs and the guards tense. 

“Oh, he’s in no position to cause me any harm now, and I can handle my own.” Bruce says to the guards. He knows he can handle the Joker in a fight, but he isn’t quite telling the truth. He knows the man can cause him serious harm if he lets too much information slip. He doesn’t know when or how Joker figured out his identity, but it is clear in this moment that he knows, and he wants to speak to him in private. 

“Oh, I bet you can.” Joker says with a wink, voice dropping to a flirtatious tone. Bruce does not have the cooling properties of his mask on him at the moment, but is still well trained to hide his emotions nonetheless. He’s used to Joker’s flirting.

“I’ve had a little bit of self defense training. My therapist recommended it when I was thirteen to help cope with my PTSD. She said feeling as if I’m able to fight the criminals in Gotham who could put my life in danger would be healthy.” Bruce smiles knowingly at the Joker, knowing he’d find that funny. He doesn’t know why he’s more comfortable opening up more to the homicidal clown than any of the Arkham staff, but he can't deny that having someone in here know who he is, even if it is the Joker, after a week of lying, feels good. To his credit, Joker does not expand on why he finds that so funny.

“It’s good to see you again, Brucie my boy, even with these strange circumstances.” He finally says. The sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability he can see on his face, takes him aback. Even worse is the fact Bruce feels the same way. He smiles softly at the Joker, not wanting to voice that, but feeling an intense need for him to know. 

“This is the most interesting conversation I’ve had all week, honestly.” He says instead. “Same time next week?”

Joker laughs and laughs, a genuine and gleeful laugh. The guards grab him, but Bruce knows that laugh is without malice. He doesn’t say anything, though, and just watches the Joker get taken away back to his cell. 

It’s less than a week. Joker isn’t normally placed in group therapy, but somehow he ends up sitting in the seat next to Bruce across from Doctor Leland. 

“Lots of familiar faces in here, huh, Bruce?” Joker says with a grin, “Don’t worry, my dear, we’ve hit it off, haven’t we? I’ll keep you safe from all the scary villains.”

“I still hate that classification.” Pamela Isely says with a tired sigh. “I don’t see how caring about the environment makes  _ me _ a bad guy. The corporate scumbags killing our planet are the real murderers.”

“No matter how noble your cause is, killing ‘corporate scumbags’ still counts as murder.” Bruce replies without thinking.

“Bruce, Wayne Enterprises is cleaner than most so you earn a measly ounce of my respect for doing the bare minimum, but you should maybe question why you’re immediately siding with the examplative corporation here. There’s some bias to explore there.” 

“I’m not siding with them, I think they’re despicable, I just want them to pay in prison instead of in the grave.”

Isely laughs. “Have you seen our country’s justice system? I know you benefit from its corruption. Anyone rich enough can get off without much fuss. Hell, Oswald here will be out within a month.” Cobblepot, who appears to be trying to fall asleep, tiredly waves at the mention of his name. “Our legal system does not deliver justice. I think my methods are justified.”

“Joe Chill has an apartment on Park Row.” Bruce says blankly. “Legally, I can’t even go near him.”

“Sorry, I have no idea who that is.” Isely says slowly. 

“When I was eight years old, I watched him kill my parents, and now he lives just a few blocks away from that spot outside the theater. A free man. He served his time and was let out, he can live his life in freedom without any regret for what he’s done, and I’m stuck holding the burden of that night forever.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce. That’s genuinely awful.” Isley replies, he can tell she doesn’t know what else to say and finds the conversation direction awkward.

“Bruce, I fought for having his sentence extended, but he really didn’t know who your parents were. It was entirely random and I couldn’t keep him there. Plus, I was fresh on the job and they knew my bias. I wasn’t actually allowed on the case.” Harvey says quietly. “But we all know my old career was bullshit! The system is broken and we can’t keep anyone who deserves it down! They can’t even keep us down! I assume you know we’re never in here long, old friend. The least you can do is check the papers since you never fucking visit! Harvey here is hurt, really. Bet you just can’t stand looking at us.”

Bruce maintains level eye contact with Dent. At this point, he’s really unphased by his injury. His single-faced friend Harvey Dent, district attorney, is stranger to imagine now than the newer normal is. “I’m sorry, Harv. I didn’t realize you’d want to see me after everything. I-I didn’t stop it. If I just did  _ something _ more Maroni would’ve never-”

“Oh, cut the bullshit. What the hell could you have done, huh? You weren’t even in the courtroom that day. It was our own government system and the petty revenge of some shitty mob boss that set me up, not you. Stop being so fucking narcissistic; it’s not about you.” Two-Face snarls. His expression morphs into a much calmer one. “I remember you used to want to kill Joe Chill. I know he filed a restraining order against you eventually. It didn’t go through, there weren’t any details, but I saw it. I checked up on his file every now and then, just in case. All this time I’ve wondered, but haven’t asked: Did you actually try to do it?”

“Yes.” Bruce sighs. 

“Ohohoh, this is interesting.” Joker giggles. Bruce ignores him.

“Why didn’t you?” Harvey asks, eyes burning into Bruce’s.

“He was pathetic. He didn’t know what he was doing, he didn’t really know who I was--”

“Not everyone can pick that perfect jawline out of a crowd like myself, huh, Bruce?”

“--and he was just scared. I left him with nothing more than a few bruises.”

“Should’ve finished the damn job.” Two-face grumbled. “What a cop-out.” 

“Would you have rathered file paperwork for my homicide charges?” 

“I know you, Bruce, you’re smart. You would’ve had some plan to cover your tracks, and it would have probably worked. The fact he knew it was you just means you broke your plan.”

“You know I would be the first suspect called in, even without evidence.”

“Yes, and I know you would have shaken it. Even if you didn't have enough dough to bust yourself out of any institution. We all know Oz is leaving soon, and we know you’ll be out as soon as you want to be.”

“If I may interject,” Dr. Leland says, breaking her silence, “Bruce has proved himself in need of rehabilitation, and we will keep him here until he is stable enough to resume his regular life. This session has been very enlightening, so I thank you all, but know that I take the rehabilitation of my patients very seriously and do not intend to let anyone leave, no matter how much money they have.” 

Just then, the door opens. “Oswald Cobblepot?” He jumps, awoken from his nap. “You have just been approved for release. You have twenty minutes to gather your things. I will walk you to your cell if you’re ready.” He smiles smugly at everyone as he stands and walks towards the nurse.

“Farewell, everyone. Keep saying good things about me. Maybe I’ll catch you on the outside if you’re lucky.” With a final wave, he heads out with the nurse. Everyone looks at Leland.

“He’s fairly mentally stable anyway.” 

“He was bullied his entire life for being a weird little penguin boy and now he kills people for fun and only trusts birds.” Joker says, tone as if it’s the setup for a joke. 

“Comparatively.” Leland retorts, and Joker laughs. He supposes she makes an exception to her normal professional attitude when regarding the Joker. It’s a smart call, honestly, if done right. He only really responds to humor and honesty, but he just as easily exploits it, like he did with Doctor Quinzel. Bruce is glad she’s out of Gotham; she deserves her space. 

“Is this meeting adjourned yet? I need some sunlight.” Isley asks. 

“I suppose the disruption might make it harder to continue. I can call someone over to walk you out. Harvey?”

“I’m done too. I’ve gotten everything I wanna know out of this prick.” He shoots Bruce a look. “It was nice talking to you again, really.” He says, smiling softly.

“You too, old pal.”

“Oh fuck off.” Two-face replies, rolling his eyes and turning back to Leland as she stands on the phone. 

“That was enlightening, ‘ _ Bruce’ _ . Did Chill see your whole face in the dark? Or just the important parts? How did you tell him it was you?” Joker says, getting close while the other two are distracted, and keeping his voice down.

“I said I was a friend.” Bruce replies quietly, looking into Joker’s earnest eyes, incredibly close to his own. They’re normally only this close if he’s interrogating or fighting the Joker, or if Joker has him tied up. Seeing him this close, even without the element of danger, still somehow gives him the same thrill. He doesn’t know why he’s being so honest, but doesn’t really seem to care. 

“And that line worked? Ha! I guess putting a restraining order on your  _ friend _ is more difficult than you. I wonder how many people have tried...” Joker starts laughing and Bruce can’t help but smile.

“In group therapy, you revealed that you planned to murder Joe Chill, and nearly did so.” Leland says at their next one on one session.

“Yes.”

“Would you mind sharing how?”

“You see, doc, if I share my genius plan for how to get away with murder, then suddenly I can’t get away with murder.”

“Bruce-”

“That wasn’t a good joke, I know. I have no intentions of killing anyone. I really hate murder.”

“Hmm.”

“Is ‘I hate murder’ a hmm worthy statement?”

“Kind of, when paired with planning a murder, making a joke about planning a murder, and being close with the Joker.”

“I wouldn’t say we’re close.”

“He would.”

“He says a lot of things.”

“You smile at him a lot. You seek him out specifically even when you could talk to anyone else. You laugh at his jokes and tell him your own. You just made a joke about murder that, though I don’t find funny, I know matches his sense of humor.”

“What are you saying?”

“Just that you’ve developed an unlikely friendship with the Joker.”

“It’s circumstantial.”

“So your intended homicide?”

“Ever since that night in the alley I wanted to kill the man who killed my parents. You can’t blame me for having that childish fantasy, that black and white mentality. An eye for an eye, one life for three. I grew out of it, like any childish fantasy. You’re familiar with the pre-moral phase of Kohlberg’s theory of-”

“Yes, Bruce. You might be able to guess that I, the head psychiatrist of a famous mental health facility, might be familiar with basic psychology.”

“I grew into my own moral code and haven't killed anyone."

"When you checked yourself in here, you expressed that you think you are a danger to yourself and others, but so far, Joe Chill is the only person you've seemed to have been an active danger too. What really made you check yourself in to Arkham?" 

"I've told you, doc, ever since my parent's death I've felt an intense need to protect everyone which has led to me putting myself in harm's way."

"Bruce, I know you want me to help you. That's why you checked yourself into this institution, you want help, but I can't help you if you don't open up to me." 

Bruce is silent. His mind is racing trying to put together an honest answer that does not give away his identity, but he's said all he can think to say. He made his story and he's stuck with it. The session ends.

"Bruce, I'm here to help you." Leland says earnestly as she leads him to the cafeteria. 

"I know." Bruce replies, but can't look her in the eyes.

After he takes his seat with his food, he's surprised to see Joker walked into the lunch room.

"Oh, don't make me sit over there alone! That's so incredibly boring, and you know how I get when I'm bored. Take me over to Brucie! Hello there, buddy o pal oh mine! Bruce is a good friend, you know."

"You're delusional, Joker." The guards says with a snarl

"Only sometimes, but these meds make it hard." He replies with a laugh.

"He can sit over here, I really don't mind." Bruce says, surprising himself.

"You sure, Wayne?" The guard gives him a skeptical look. He doesn't recognize the man, so he assumes news of his strange comradery with the Joker hasn't spread far. He grimly thinks that will change soon.

"He's the most interesting guy here, honest. Makes good conversation." Bruce replies with a charming grin.

"Awww you flatter me!" Joker exclaims, and manages to pull away from the guard to skip over to Bruce and sit down close to him. The guard exclaims in surprise and rushes after him. "The meds may lessen my delusions, but some of the paranoid loonies in here always think they're being watched. Even when the guard's backs are turned, they feel eyes from every corner." He's still smiling but it's a serious smile, and Bruce gets the message immediately. "Rather  _ Strange _ , wouldn't you say?" He adds, right when the guard catches up. 

“Don’t do that, Joker, if you try that again I have the means to detain you.”

“Oh relax, you were just walking too slow. Can’t do much in these zip ties! Please just take a seat a table over and let me talk to my friend.” The guard seems like he doesn’t care enough to fight him on that. Joker has that effect on people, they find him annoying and not worth the effort. He knows this, and he uses it to his advantage. 

"I think it was unwise for you to have shaken loose to-go after me. You wouldn't want tighter restrictions, would you?" He made the t sound especially soft, and Joker noted the strange wording with a grin. Not his best wordplay, but Hugo is a hard name to work into a sentence. 

"I think it's  _ Strange _ that I was let in the cafeteria at all, normally I'm kept a sad, lonely clown--ugh, you know no one likes a sad clown--but higher powers must have aligned to let me hang out with my dear buddy Bruce."

"We have been getting a decent amount of time together these past few days, do you normally get to see other people this much?" 

"Oh don't you fret about me seeing other people, I'm strictly monogamous." His wink wasn't his flirtatious one. Bruce gets the meaning. He's normally kept primarily in solitary; Strange is watching through his cameras and for some reason wants Bruce and Joker to get time together. Something about that seems nefarious. Bruce has read into Hugo Strange; his credentials are impressive. He hasn't been able to find anything particularly fishy in his files, but the man has the disposition of someone with a lot to hide. Takes one to know one, he supposes, and he has no real evidence that it affects his work at Arkham, but the notoriety of the institution has not improved in the years since he took his position as head. “Anyway! Enough about this place, I hear you’re a playboy, hm?”

“That’s what the press likes to say.” Bruce replies. 

“I bet it takes skill to really play with you. I’m sure you have a lot of suitors, but I don’t think the press sees who you’re really after.” Joker’s serious grin is long gone, and this one is intense. His eyes burn with an emotion Bruce would rather not think about, but he can’t look away. He’s suddenly aware of how close the Joker’s seat is to his.

“And who might that be?”

“I think you’re drawn to darkness. You like people who can challenge you, people who can win against you but might let you get them next time. Your reputation precedes you, almost everyone you meet bends to your whim, and you like the ones who can bend you right back.” His voice is low, and it’s incredibly clear to Bruce that this is something Joker has thought about a lot. 

“And what gives you that idea?” Bruce manages to say, heart caught in his throat.

“Oh just a hunch. I personally know at least one person who’s  _ stolen _ your heart. She’s good at that sort of thing. I’d like to think I know more. Actually? No, I’m pretty sure I do.” 

“Who else are you implying?” Bruce asks, but he knows the answer. Joker just laughs. 


	2. Tensions Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I would post the rest of the story a month later. Nineteen days and 7.7k words later, still only 2/3 done with the first act, I figured it would make sense to break this into six parts total. I have it fully outlined, and am excited to get to the climax and the second act. Things are moving slower than expected, but I think with the complexities of the characters, their moralities and mental health, and the universe, it necessitates a slower pace. Last time I said I would wrap this up in a month. This time I will make no guesses, just know I have a plan and am consistently working on this.

He begins seeing Joker more and more. They get the same rec room time, cafeteria time, and the group therapy sessions become more frequent. The other patients present rotate, except for the Joker who keeps his seat next to him with a grin. Joker's security has been lessened greatly; Bruce hasn't seen the straight jacket since his first week and the group of guards from that first day in the rec room has been cut down to one--one Bruce has seen Joker shake free of in the cafeteria. Whatever angle Strange is playing, he's putting the lives of every patient and employee the Joker now crosses paths with at risk. Unless…

No. There's no way he can know that Bruce is capable of detaining him. If he thinks he is, it has to be purely due to his strange comradery with the Joker, some emotional angle, not because he knows. It's impossible to prove a link between Bruce Wayne and Batman, he's made sure of it, but it is possible to guess, and to wait for proof to surface on its own…

"You recognized me." Bruce says simply.

"Hm?" Joker looks up from his paper, purple crayon in hand. Bruce thinks it's demeaning that crayons are the only writing utensils provided; Joker thinks it's hilarious. Treating highly intelligent super criminals like preschoolers and putting them in the same room as people genuinely seeking help.

"That first day, you recognized me." Bruce has been wanting to ask countless questions on the matter, but struggled to form a single one without revealing anything. He struggled to allow himself to confront the significance of Joker figuring out his secret beyond the strange comfort that having someone in here know provides, because confronting that fact means confronting how much Joker knows. Everyone close to Bruce Wayne, Alfred, Dick… 

"Oh yes, of course!" Joker clasps his hands together. "You see, Brucie, when you know a lot about someone--tabloids and all, hard not to--you pick up on things!"

"But you said it was dark, hard to see, what did you recognize?"

"Oh, everything about you." His gaze is intense, the cheesy grin becoming more serious. "You do have an incredible jawline, as I’ve said, but it's more than that. The way you hold yourself, the way you speak… as if everything is calculated, but the numbers are running unbelievably fast. Purpose and impulse; you lash out and are honestly stupid sometimes, but you're also oh so smart. It shows in the micromovements of your face, in the clenching of your muscles…" His expression gets slightly more distant the more he speaks, but snaps back, more intense than before, when he continues. "I know you and could recognize you anywhere."

Bruce's mouth is dry and it's hard to form words after that, but he has to know. "Flattered, really, but after only two weeks in here and our paths briefly crossing outside, is it  _ Strange _ to know me that well?" Joker's expression darkens.

"Well, I have felt free as a bird since you've joined me here." The humor is mostly missing from his voice. "Do you play chess?'

"Occasionally…"

"Fun game, one little thing: I hate when I'm stuck moving as a pawn." 

"I feel the same."

"Then we can be king and queen. Both in the same kingdom, that way even the player cannot pit us against each other like intended." Joker's voice is much quieter than normal, Bruce assumes it's to make up for his code being fairly obvious. "Chess is war. We set up the pieces and expect the pawns to just fight each other, sadistic bastards can't help it. They just go crazy on each other, huh? Can't control themselves? No pacifistic angle imaginable! No emotion! You can't call checkmate on a pawn, they're just dead. Sometimes it's hard to help, sometimes the lines between the squares are blurry, the colors are shifting, and suddenly there's blood everywhere when I really wanted at least one hostage and knew Batsy would be pissed, but I'm not just some mindless-"

"Joker." Bruce grabs his shoulder. "Breathe." 

“Ugh, how humbling.” He groans, pressing his hand to his forehead, avoiding eye contact. “You know how explosive my temper is, my dear. No need to worry your pretty head over little old me.”

“You said I’m smart.”

“I did indeed. I also said you’re incredibly stupid.” Joker looks back up from the table, gaze tired. 

“Noted. I also consider myself smart, but sometimes when.” He pauses, trying to think of a way to work in the chess code. He switches gears. “I didn’t figure it out until now, and it’s only a working theory.” He says plainly, the full uncloaked meaning. Joker’s strained, false grin loosens. “Talking about you, of course. You tell me about myself, say you know me, but I’ve picked up some things about you.” Joker’s eyebrows raise slightly, noting the pivot. Retroactive coding is sloppy, but Bruce found it necessary. “You’re incredibly smart. Smarter than anyone gives you credit for, they all think you’re just chaos, completely random, but you know everything. The fact it’s all so funny to you is because you can see the entire punchline. When something slips past, when something’s unnoticed, sometimes it’s funny, but sometimes it challenges what you think you know. Challenges your sense of control. Makes you feel vul-”

“I’m going to stop you right there.” His smile is gone, expression unreadable for a moment, before it returns; fake, but not strained. “It’s taken doctors years to get an ounce of an accurate read on me. I’ve read my file, have you? Thrilling stuff, I like the story about the clown abandoned for having too big of a smile. I didn’t even do a good job changing the details when lifting that one from  _ Dumbo _ ; I thought that doctor looked as if she went to Disney World more often than she visited family, and then when I saw her Mickey Mouse tattoo I couldn’t help but laugh. She didn’t even pick up on my game! What a shame, probably prefers  _ The Little Mermaid  _ or something equally boring over the only good movie that damned mouse ever made. Point is, no one can nail down my character. Ruins the whole mystery. Do I know everything? Do I know nothing? Do I even have psychosis or are these meds just making me tired and constipated for no reason at all? These are questions that keep everyone here up at night until they finally stop caring. Oh, and when they stop caring, it’s exquisite. They climb the mountain in search of the truth, and then reality hits and they fall into the sky, never to be the same again, and I get to play that little role in their lives by explaining that I ran off with a mouse and got drunk as a child, resulting in my first hallucinatory experience. Hilarious!”

“And you see how I let you get through your monologues?” Bruce replies with a smirk. “Plus everything I say is just theory, unless I’m right and I really do know you. Your reaction makes me think so.”

“But I made Doctor Quinzel think she knew me, and that worked far too well. She was far clingier than I expected, ugh, useful though. No idea where she ran off too.”

“I wouldn’t know. I stick to Wayne Enterprises and charity events, mostly. Maybe blow off some steam in one of my vacation homes if I get too restless.” Joker laughs at that. 

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. It’s easy to forget that you’re just some boring richboy. Sometimes, as we talk, you almost seem human.”

“I could say the same.” Joker laughs again. 

“Ah, touché, old pal.” 

“You mean it, right?”

“I rarely do, be more specific.”

“King and queen?”

“Absolutely, my queen.” Joker replies with a grin.

“Hold on, why exactly am I the queen?” 

“I’ve thought this through. The queen is incredibly valuable and can go almost anywhere, get into all the exclusive clubs and onto all the highest rooftops, and absolutely annihilate anyone in her way if she so chooses. I heard about your self defense courses, Bruce, and consider me intimidated.”

Bruce keeps his expression unreadable.

“And I, my darling, am clearly the king.”

“No further explanation?”

“Your job is to keep me safe, even if I have a habit of starting trouble myself. Whoops! I have all the power and all the class and you do my bidding.”

“I don’t think that’s the king and queen dynamic in chess…”

“Are you scolding me for mischaracterizing little figures that don't actually have personalities? Seriously? I’m weaving this glorious fiction for you and you try to tell me that I am wrong?” 

“I-”

“You’re really insufferable, you know that?” Joker has more genuine fondness in his voice than Bruce thinks he’s ever heard from him. 

“I’ve been told.”

“Often?”

“On occasion.”

Time passes oddly in Arkham; every second feels like an eternity, but the days blur together so much a week feels like a day. He is given the privilege of time outside some evenings, but it is only a brief release from the pale beige. Everyone is escorted back in before the moon can even rise. Staring up at the cloudy Gotham sky, he feels so disconnected from the world outside. He thinks about the few times he's been genuinely stuck slightly out of space or time--by Clock King or forces more sinister--and is struck by how similar Arkham feels. He continues to stare at the sky, obscured by the Asylum's walls and the few trees that attempt to brighten the dark place up, and doesn't realize that he was waiting, searching for anything in particular until the bat signal brightens up a wide circle in the clouds.

He jumps to his feet, every muscle in his body preparing for action. His eyes dart around the yard for a plan of action, but as he starts analyzing his surroundings--poorly maintained landscaping, a few guards, and the patients stable and well-behaved enough to be allowed outdoors--he remembers where he is. His heart rate doesn't slow. He tells himself that Gordon can handle it. He knows all the big hitters are in here with him; Oswald went free, but he knows Jim can handle his gang.

Nigma is reading a book on a bench a few yards away. The bench is without a back and his posture is visibly suffering because of it. Bruce makes a mental note to refresh his knowledge on Wilde before The Riddler's next game, and to personally finance better benches.

Joker is inside. It's after dinner, so he assumes Joker convinced Steve, his current guard, to bring him dessert. He has a sweet tooth, and even sweeter to him is knowing that the people supposedly in power will give him what he wants. Bruce doesn't know why Arkham doesn't brief everyone on this, after the "Puddin'" situation, but he supposes there's no real harm. Still, the fact Joker has had the same guard for weeks is worrying. He hopes Joker keeps his word about allying with Bruce to spite Strange.

Isley is not allowed outside under any circumstances due to her powers. Everyone, upon re-entering Arkham, is checked for stray leaves and remnants of plantlife. She hasn't escaped, and he does not know when she will. Fries has been quiet. Bane was relocated to Belle Reve several months ago, as well as Croc, which makes them Waller's problems, for better or worse. Crane, Tetch, Dent, Zsasz, even the less threatening rogues like Walker, Day, and Heed… They're all taken care of. Gotham is safe. Jim can handle it.

"Wayne, it's time to go back inside." The nearest guard says warmly, approaching him to walk him to the door.

Cobblepot probably has the entire city rigged to explode with something absurdly campy like robot penguins, and is probably delivering his monologue right now, assuming Batman is listening. Everyone is in danger and it's all his fault. He has to get out.

"Wayne?" The guard repeats gently. "Bruce? It's time for you to go inside and start winding down for the night."

The sun hasn't even set. He can't wind down, he has to get to work. The trees are poorly maintained, but the lower branches are kept in check. It would be hard to climb, especially without relying on his equipment, but the bark has a rough enough texture that he should be able to if he goes fast. From there he can get to the roof of the asylum and--

"Bruce Wayne is unresponsive, requesting advice." The guard says into her communicator.

\--damn it. there's no easy way to get from the Arkham roof to outside of grounds without his cape or grappling hook. He briefly thinks about a joke he was told once about walking on light--

"Copy. Standing by."

Making a run for it would be too risky; the guards are well armed with the means to subdue patients from a range. It would just add on to his sentence.

He's snapped out of his thoughts by guards grabbing him on both sides and hauling him into the building. The one from before seems annoyed and the other seems mad. He considers breaking free, but runs through his options.

"I would like to speak with Doctor Leland." He says firmly. "Now."

"Well now you talk!" The first guard snaps. "Though I suppose we can arrange that. Your behavior out there was worrying." With the arm that isn't clutching Bruce's, she presses a few buttons on her communicator. "Doctor Leland? Are you busy? Wayne insists on speaking with you."

"Can you bring him to my office?"

"Copy that, ma'am."

Bruce does not take his seat when Leland offers. Her eyes narrow, but she does not argue.

"I am ready to go home now."

"And why do you say that?"

"I think being in here is doing more harm than good." He does not specify to whom.

"And why do you think that?"

"I just feel trapped. I'm not improving."

"Did you not feel trapped before? So trapped that you took such an extreme step to improve your mental health?"

"I was losing sight of myself, but I'm better now."

"So your mental health is improving?"

"It's complicated."

"I am well aware of that, Bruce, but listen to yourself. I know you aren't telling the truth, and it's ok if you aren't comfortable sharing whatever your big secret is, but you have to be honest with me in order for me to help you. Why is it that you really want out?" 

"Can I see the news?"

"Excuse me?"

"GNN's live reporting, Gotham Gazette's homepage, any of it. Can I see it?"

Doctor Leland sighs. "If I show you the news, will you open up more?"

"Possibly."

"Make that an honest yes and I will." Leland says as she pulls her phone out of her pocket.

"Deal." Leland pulls up the Gotham Gazette webpage. She holds her phone out, and Bruce finally sits down to get closer. Veronica Vreeland smiles at him from the picture attached to the most recent article. She apparently offhandedly mentioned her favorite baby name at a red carpet event and  _ 'You'll never believe what it is.'  _ Tabloid garbage. The Gazette has run puff pieces on him as well, but they typically report important events when they happen. If there was a desperate situation in the city, it would be on the front page.

"GNN?"

Leland pulls back her phone and spends a moment pulling up the livestream before holding it out for Bruce to see.

"-and now you know where to get the best ice cream in Gotham! Boy that makes me hungry. Speaking of hungry, hundreds of children in Gotham go hungry every day. Veronica Vreeland is holding a charity auction this Saturday to help combat that! What do you think, Trevor?"

"Well someone has to pick up the slack now that philanthropist Bruce Wayne seems to be on vacation. There has been no official statement on where he's gone, but there have been claims that he's checked himself in Arkham. We must reiterate that there is no proof of this, no press can get near Arkham for verification, so take these rumors with a grain of salt."

"I doubt someone like Wayne would end up in an awful place like that. He could afford better mental health institutions, ones without The Joker," She shudders at the mention of his name, "Then again, Wayne is publicly critical of the wealth inequality in America, and the healthcare system, highly publicizing the full insurance provided to Wayne Enterprise employees and putting pressure on other companies to do the same. Do you think he would check himself in to make a statement about the healthcare available to those of lower incomes than his?"

"Ha! If that was the case, it would be publicized. He'd be more likely to just donate a few million and walk away. He's all words and money, no real action."

"Very true. I've spoken to a few, shall we say, women who have crossed paths with him, and they say he's just as carefree as he appears."

"That's enough of that, I'd say." Leland says, timing out her screen and pocketing her phone. "Did that help?"

It wasn't an emergency. Why was the bat-signal lit if it wasn't an emergency? He warned Gordon about his absence. The fact Gotham doesn't know about his stay at Arkham is interesting; he had just assumed the story would have gotten out somehow. It hadn't even occurred to him that it wasn't public knowledge.

"Yes, thank you." 

"Now, our deal?"

"She was wrong."

"About which part?"

"I paid them off to say that."

"Who?"

"The supermodels."

"Elaborate."

Bruce sighs. He chose the angle with the least overlap with Batman, and yet it's still so tied to his identity.

"If I keep up the carefree playboy image, they won't look too close. If I feed them a character, they'll never get to know the man." 

"Is that so?" Leland grabs her pen and paper. She waits, but Bruce doesn't elaborate further. "Why do you pay them off?"

"After parties, I go home with a girl on my arm. I let her stay in a guest room, every streaming service I don't boycott hooked up to the TV. I pay off her student loans, medical bills, whatever, and give her a little extra. In return I just want her to pretend the persona is real. Feed the rumor mill. Meanwhile, I get my work done."

"Thank you for sharing the how, but can you now explain why?"

_ I can't take nights off. I can't explain these scars. I can't let someone I don't trust catch me in a vulnerable state.  _ "Fear of intimacy." He says simply. Leland writes something else down and looks back up at Bruce, waiting. Bruce maintains his silence until it becomes clear Leland is committed to waiting this one out. “It is… Difficult for me to trust anyone. The people I care about, the people I let close to me… It almost always seems to turn out badly.”

“Almost?”

“Alfred. He raised me, and he is the only one who is still with me.”

“What about your ward? Dick Grayson?”

“He left for college, did some soul searching, and decided he would not return home. It’s his decision. It’s a decision most kids make around that age.”

“It hurts.”

“Only because I know he’s right.”

“About what?”

“About me.”

“Bruce, why did Dick decide not to return home?”

“He looked up to me, wanted to be like me, and then matured enough to realize how much he would hate becoming like me.”

“Why?”

“I’m here, aren’t I? Not allowed out, either.” 

“Bruce, it isn’t about not being allowed--”

“Then let me leave.”

“It is for your benefit that you stay. You said on the first day that you think you’re a danger to yourself, and you have convinced me of that more every day. I trust the instinct that brought you here, Bruce, and I want to help you.” Bruce stays silent. “Our deal?”

“I opened up more. That’s what I promised.”

“You’re not wrong, but deliberately going against the implied outline of this deal will impact the likelihood of me accepting any other deals in the future.”

“What else do you want to know?”

“Why were you so desperate to see the news?”

“I had to know that my city is safe.” Bruce answers automatically, honestly. He thinks it’s a safe answer; everyone knows that Bruce cares about Gotham.

“The Bat-Signal.” Leland says, making Bruce freeze. He quickly recovers, and Leland was looking towards her window, and not at him, so she does not notice. “Did you see the Bat-Signal and get worried?”

“I don’t like not knowing what’s going on. I haven’t seen it in weeks, I assumed it had to have been an emergency, and while I was sitting on a bench safe across from the Riddler, a madman was threatening my family, my employees.”

“What would you have done if you were at home and there  _ was _ an emergency?”

“I have an advanced security system, and I could personally see Alfred safe, and make sure he stayed that way.” 

“This is technically against policy, but would calling Alfred help you feel safer?”

“Yes.” Bruce answers immediately. Leland, on her personal phone, opens the number pad and asks for Alfred’s number, and Bruce provides it. 

“Now, I will keep the phone on speakerphone on my desk. Is that ok?”

“Yes. Understood.”

Alfred answers on the third ring. “Alfred Pennyworth.”

“Alfred, this is Doctor Joan Leland from Arkham Asylum. Bruce is in my office, and the phone is on speaker.”

“Oh dear, is everything alright?”

“I’m fine, Al. It’s good to hear your voice again.” 

“It’s good to hear yours as well, sir, but this is unexpected nonetheless. To what do I owe the honor?”

“I saw the Bat-Signal and needed to hear firsthand that everything is ok. Uh, paranoia and all that.”

“Yes. Paranoia.” Alfred’s tone is sardonic and he sighs. Bruce can picture the exact look on his face. “If it was not big enough to make the news, then it is not an urgent danger. I’m sure  _ Batman  _ and the GCPD have everything completely handled.”

“You’re right, Alfred. They always seem to.”

“Yes, for better or worse. Bruce, do work on opening up more. I know that you’re a man of many secrets, but what is the point of this little venture if you don’t?”

“I have been.”

“Yes, very well sir, I am glad I could ease your  _ paranoia _ .” 

“Goodnight, Alfred.”

“Goodnight to you as well, Master Bruce.”

Alfred hangs up and Leland pockets her phone. “I think we can call it for the night. How about I walk you back to your room before I clock out?”

His next group therapy session is the following day. Bruce takes his normal seat. Joker soon enters the room, and takes his normal seat to Bruce’s immediate right. “Brucie, baby, every time I see you it feels like a surprise! I knew you would be here, of course I did, but it’s hard to be sure of much of anything, really, and here you are!” He throws his arms around Bruce in a big hug, taking Bruce aback. He rarely touches Joker outside of fighting, and that has not changed in Arkham. He feels the surprisingly soft skin of Joker’s cheek brushing against his ear and his breath hot on his neck. Bruce slowly wraps his arms around Joker to reciprocate. The words  _ “This is selfish,” _ repeat in his mind without further explanation, nearly deafening. He feels Joker’s breathing through his chest, the clown’s dull but erratic pulse--which can’t be healthy, but it’s always been that way. He’s felt it through his hand around the clown’s neck, checked for it on his wrist after close calls, seen it on heart rate monitors, heard it through the detective mode on his cowl, felt it through his arm braced against the Joker’s chest to restrain him, but never like this. This is new.

The Joker pulls away with a grin. The hug only lasted about four seconds. 

“You’re in a good mood.” Bruce says, keeping his expression controlled. Joker smirks.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He throws his arms to his sides and grins. Bruce looks to the stained walls and back to Joker, eyebrow raised. “Group therapy with my good pal  _ Bruce Wayne _ is always exciting.” He winks.

“Ugh.” Edward Nigma scoffs. “Do you have to do that here?” 

“Eddie! Didn’t see you there, I see you’re still holding on to  _ some _ of your hair! Congrats, I know that’s hard for you.”

“Joker.” Leland says sternly, before Nigma can respond. Joker holds up his hands and smiles in a show of innocence. 

“Do what, exactly, in here?” Bruce asks, eyes narrowing. 

“Flirt.” Nigma replies flatly, catching Bruce off guard. Joker starts laughing.

“Excuse me?” Bruce says sharply. Joker shoves his hand in his mouth to calm his laughter.

“I know you heard me the first time, and I don’t like repeating myself.” 

“Aw, Bruce ol boy, Eddie’s just a real tease. Ignore him.” Joker says gleefully, throwing an arm around Bruce’s shoulders. He’s dimly aware of the fact his normal reflexes didn’t kick in to immediately shove the clown off. 

“Oh. Still in that awkward phase. Even worse. Tell me, Bruce, how do you put up with this dunce?”

“I wouldn’t call him a dunce, personally.”

“I’m clearly not scared of him.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Is that your only defense of me? I’m wounded. After all we’ve been through.”

“Can we please change the subject?” Nigma groans. “Hatter, you have anything to add?” 

“Monstrous crow, as black as a tar-barrel.” Tetch says simply.

“It was really your fault for asking him at all.” Isley says, looking up from her magazine. She’s attended most of these sessions with Bruce and the Joker, and has taken to mostly tuning them out.

“They quite forgot their quarrel.” Tetch adds with a smile.

“I get what you were going for, but we didn’t forget at all. For a proper subject change, there needs to be a new subject introduced, you dimwit.”

“Eddie, can you go five minutes without being a pretentious asshole?” Isley sets down her magazine. “We get it! You’re smart! Newsflash, you’re talking to a neural scientist and a botanical toxicologist; though, I’m sure that bachelor degree from Columbia makes a great coaster.”

Joker laughs. “Doc! Doc! You call me down and not her? I sense some bias here.” 

“I do think I should step in to guide this conversation to a more productive place.” Leland replies diplomatically. Joker snorts. “Now, there is something in common with all of you that leads to my choice of participants in these sessions.”

“Seriously? What do you think I have in common with him.” Isley says flatly, gesturing to the Joker.

“I believe it would be more productive for you to all find that conclusion on your own.”

“Well, genius?” Isley turns to look at the Riddler, who is deep in thought. 

“‘If seven maids with seven mops swept it for half a year, do you suppose,’ the Walrus said, ‘That they could get it clear?’” Tetch recites to himself. Everyone ignores him.

“Deflection. You put us together because we always deflect otherwise.” 

“That is true, Bruce, and you know I cannot help you if I cannot reach you.”

“The thing is, I don’t need or want help. I’m perfectly fine on my own. I’m honestly stable.” 

“Pamela, you have a hard time letting anyone in due to the abuse in your past, and have absolutely no empathy for people; only plants.” Leland says sternly.

“And? I know and I’m fine. It works for me, this is just how I am. The real issue is everyone else, everyone who slaughters innocent flora without remorse. You want empathy? I can physically feel their pain.”

“What about Harley Quinn?” Bruce asks. Joker’s eyes dart to Bruce, widening slightly.

“Don’t start with that, like you aren’t chummy with  _ him _ . I know you don’t care about her.”

“My feelings are irrelevant. I’ve just read some articles, seen some things, and I don’t think you’re right about not caring for anyone.”

“My diagnosis is about empathy, not compassion, Bruce.”

“So you do care about her?”

“What does it matter to you? You clearly don’t, and you don’t care about me. Mind your own business; I don’t want to just be milked for gossip just to make you popular at parties when you get out of here.”

“The outside world has no idea that I’m in Arkham, and I intend to keep it that way.”

“Cool, you’d be too ashamed to gossip about me. That definitely makes me want to spill everything about my relationship with Harley to her ex's new plaything.” Joker starts laughing again. Bruce elbows him in the side to get him to stop.

“No need to be so rough.” Joker says with a wink, rubbing his side. Bruce scoffs, knowing it didn’t hurt him at all; Joker’s nerves are incredibly dulled, and he was gentle. Half of him wonders why he bothered to be gentle at all. Isley and Nigma both groan. 

“My comradery with the Joker was unexpected and is… Professional.” He can’t outright deny their accusations. As much as he likes to pass off the Joker’s feelings as a more platonic obsession or an extended joke, he isn’t stupid. He knows that despite the fact he acts as if nothing bothers him, as if his madness freed him from all pain, explicitly rejecting the clown hurts him. He cannot afford that right now.  _ This is selfish. _

“You’re talking as if this is a new business venture, and not just your standards lowering with the lack of your normal type in Arkham.” Nigma levels a cold gaze at him, and Bruce thinks about the irony of that statement. His normal type would reasonably end up behind bars if they didn’t escape; Joker was right about that. “Just own up to whatever this is.”

“Now now, despite what you would assume, Bruce Wayne is not the type to kiss and tell!” Joker’s grin is slightly strained, his gaze sporadically straying from Nigma to glance at Bruce. “And, Riddler, buddy, I didn’t think you were the type to want to know at all.”

“‘If this were only cleared away,’ they said, ‘It would be grand!’” Tetch mutters.

“I agree with Hatter.” Isley says. “Bruce, you don’t pry into my life, and I won’t question the awful decision I think you’re making.”

“Fair enough.” Bruce replies quickly. He has always been adept at dodging questions, and has only gotten more practice since his stay in Arkham began, but he could tell that particular subject was putting strain on not just him, but starting to bother the Joker as well. 

“This just keeps going in circles. At this point, I would rather hear the stories of your childhood trauma again.” Nigma says.

“When I was five years old, I had a lovely pet rat. He didn’t come from a pet store, but from the garage. My father killed the others--he was good at that--but missed one. It was thinner, frailer than the others. Reminded me of myself, honestly; I was severely underfed. It escaped my mother’s violent rampage, though, which is something I envied. I told the little mouse jokes to make it laugh; it didn’t laugh. I tried and tried my best to make it happy, and nothing worked. It just looked at me with those empty, beady eyes. It was as if there was nothing in its head. I laughed until I started to cry. The hamster didn’t cry, it was incapable. Another thing I envied. Overcome with jealousy, I picked up the rodent and began to scream. I shouted in its face until my reflection in its eyes looked the same as the uncle who killed its brothers, and I realized it was dead. Strong grip! I don’t know my own strength sometimes. I never cared for another living thing ever again.” 

“This is the most blatantly inconsistent backstory I have heard from you thus far.” Leland replies, unamused.

Joker looks at Bruce. His face is lit up, asking Bruce if he finds it funny, if he gets the joke, and Bruce becomes aware of the soft, amused smile on his own face. He quickly masks his expression, but he can tell Joker saw. The clown smiles, a soft and genuine smile. Bruce feels exposed; his heart skips a beat. The fact he recognized the patterns Joker tends to follow in his origin stories, and he somehow found the blend of them into an absurd and self-disproving mess genuinely funny, is worrying. No, that’s not quite right; the fact he found it endearing is what’s worrying.

It’s been nearly a decade since he first met the Joker. He has had reason to study him again and again; to figure out his motives, to put a stop to his crimes, understanding him has been a necessity. Being able to read him is a tool that has saved lives. He was able to tell--from the smile not reaching his eyes and the quick deflections, from his gaze darting to Bruce between every word and the shakiness in his knee--that Joker is uncomfortable with the nature of his… bond with Bruce being put up to a serious discussion beyond the initial jokes, specifically when it became a conversation that Bruce needed to contribute to.The fact he noticed and adapted is just diplomatic.

_ This is selfish. _ The reasons are multitudinous. He has fought Joker time and time again, and has picked up on his sense of humor. The fact he finds some of it funny just means he gets it. He has to get it in order to protect his city. Understanding Joker is part of his job. It's to keep Gotham safe. The fact the two naturally manage to keep a code going, both understanding each other easily, is just the result of a nine year professional relationship. This professional relationship leaving the job, becoming a genuine bond, is a disservice to Gotham city. Nine years. How many lives has the Joker taken in that time? His debut alone resulted in thirteen deaths, and after that even he can’t keep track. To become close with the Joker, even if it’s circumstantial, is immoral. It’s disrespectful to every life he’s hurt, ended. To the survivors and the families, to his city. He knows this, so why doesn’t he feel anything? Thinking of the victims, seeing their faces in his mind contorted into grins, he just feels numb. He distantly remembers his horror at that first crime scene--even then, still muffled. He doesn’t know when that feeling went away. He still feels scared. Scared of when he cannot save them, scared of what he might do to try, and scared of what he might do if he no longer cares.

_ This is selfish. _ The fact he didn’t deny Nigma and Isley’s accusations in order to preserve his relationship with the Joker is selfish. When he gets out of here, the two will just go back to fighting as if none of this has happened. The fact he looks forward to that is  _ selfish. _ He didn’t want to hurt the sociopathic clown’s limited feelings because he wanted his professional relationship with the murderer to stay stable. He wanted to continue being genuinely close in a new way during his stay at Arkham, with no intention of maintaining that afterwards. This is a new low. The fact he can’t decide whether it’s crueler to Joker or Gotham makes his head hurt. He wishes it were crueler to Joker. 

What’s wrong with him? 

“In group therapy, you dodged every question about the nature of your relationship with the Joker. Was that because of who was asking or because of who was next to you?” His next session with Leland starts strong.

“The fact the question was brought up at all.”

“So if I ask, professionally and with complete confidentiality, would you answer?”

“Why don’t you find out?”

“What is the nature of your relationship with the Joker?”

“Convenience.”

“In what way?”

“He’s here. I’m here.”

“There are plenty of other patients, why him?”

“He’s interesting.”

“Quinzel said the same thing when she started work.”

“That’s different.”

“She thought she was different, that she could fix him.”

“I am aware that he is the way he is. I have no delusions of ‘fixing’ him.”

“Does this bother you?”

Bruce wants to say yes, but hesitates. “It bothers me that he kills people, harms innocents.”

“Before you said you hate killing.”

“And that was noteworthy enough to chronicle?”

“I work at Arkham.”

“Fair enough.”

“The fact he kills people bothers you?”

“Yes.”

“But you can still be… friends with him?”

“What are you getting at?”

“You have a savior complex that involves you putting yourself in harm's way, and you hate killing, and yet you have no intentions of attempting to save the Joker, and are close with him anyway. In fact, you go out of your way to not publicly reject him, and only do so in vague terms within the privacy of this room. Is that correct?”

“Save is an interesting word choice.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t think he’s suffering, and I know there’s no cure. He has a neurological disorder, I know you know that doesn’t just go away.”

“Yes, that is correct, but are you sure he isn’t suffering?”

“Not more than the rest of us. He at least finds it funny.”

“Now, Bruce, this is a tricky question, but how do his victims make you feel?”

“Excuse me?”

“When thinking about all of the lives he’s taken, how do you feel?”

If Batman had been quicker, they would still be alive. It’s really all his fault. Joker tests him, pushes his limits. His schemes are personal, they’re made for him. If he put the pieces together quicker, acted faster, they would be safe. It’s all just Joker’s big game. 

“If only I’d done something, there would be less death. Wayne Enterprises could develop technology to counter some of his attacks, if only I acted quick enough.”

“I asked about the lives, Bruce.”

“I wish there wasn’t so much bloodshed.”

“But how do you feel?”

“I hate murder.”

“About the people.”

“I hate that they had to die.”

“Bruce. Does it hurt? You feel responsible, but do you feel remorse? Do you feel grief? Answer me honestly.”

“It is upsetting that they’re dead.”

“Please don’t dodge this question.”

“I’m answering honestly.”

“Bruce, I don’t know what it is you’re keeping from me, but I am suspecting that it has been traumatic enough to result in a loss of empathy. According to your files, you used to have relatively high empathy, but that does not match what I have observed in you during your stay here. I am not asking you to reveal your secret, but I want you to know this is a safe place. You can confide in me.”

"This is all because I've been spending time with the Joker?"

"No, it's because of the consistent patterns of thoughts and behaviors I have observed in you for the past month. You talk about wanting to protect people, and you're willing to put yourself in harm's way to do it, but the way you talk about other people is always in terms of how they make you feel about yourself."

"Everyone's feelings are filtered through their own perception, their own self centeredness. That's hardly unique."

"Though that is true, there's a difference between feeling everything from a personal perspective and not feeling."

"I have emotions, doc."

"I am well aware, and the diagnosis I am currently suspecting allows for that, just not specific aspects. Late onset is rare; it’s only brought on by intense trauma or consistent exposure to traumatic environments, though I admit Arkham has multiple cases of that happening." 

"And what is that diagnosis exactly?" 

"I won't tell you until I am more certain. I don't want you to have it in mind while answering my questions."

"Then why tell me at all?"

"Because I want you to talk to me. I have a vague outline, but in order to fill it in and get you the help you need, I need you to take this seriously. I need you to be honest with me. Isn't that why you're here? You said you’re a danger to the people in your life,"

Yes. He came to Arkham because his destructive tendencies and emotional detachment led to him raising a kid like a weapon, and that kid grew up to hate him. He saw the same spark of vengeance that led to his own crusade, that led to him nearly killing Joe Chill, and thought if it could be channeled, dealt with more healthily--

As if any of what he's doing has ever been healthy. As if that was the kind of life he could bring a child into. Dick wanted to be just like him. Batman was his hero when Bruce should have been his father, and now he's filled with resentment over the traumatic childhood his "hero" cultivated. 

A few days later, he hears a knock on his door. "Wayne? You have a visitor." The nurse escorts him to the visiting room while his mind races. Alfred is staying away. He doesn't know if it's to act as incentive or because he hated to see him here, dressed in uniform and surrounded by his enemies, but he kept his word. He respects that. He intends to see Alfred soon.

Lucius knows he's here, but even if he had an important business inquiry, he would stay away. He knows that Lucius would not want to distract him from his recovery, even if it makes everything harder on him. He's a great man.

He supposes the al Ghuls would figure out the connection between Bruce Wayne's vacation and Batman's injury, but doubts Talia would visit. Selina wouldn't come near this place if she didn't have to. 

Dick Grayson sits in a stained plastic chair, arms crossed and a look of fury on his face. The nurse moves away and he takes his seat across from him.

"Dick, it's a ple-"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"About what?"

"Cut the bullshit. You know exactly what. Why did you check yourself into Arkham?"

"Didn't you say I belonged here?"  _ With all the monsters I fight to fuel some sick delusion that I'm not exactly like them? Isn't that what you said?  _

"Oh so it's my fault? I know you're petty, but would you really go this far just over a fight?"

"It wasn't one fight."  _ It was the whole damn war. _

"Have you even told them?"

Bruce looks down, silence as an answer.

"Then you aren't actually trying to get better. You're just trying to prove something, whether you know it or not, and you're probably only getting worse. Seeing Joker every day and not being able to punch his teeth in? Or maybe you have. Either way."

"What is it you think I'm trying to prove?"

"That you're justified. That everything you've done, everything you do, the life you lead, is justified." 

"And what do you think?"

"You know what I think."

"Humor me."

"I think you need to give up this bullshit and come home."

"I can't just leave."

"What's holding you here, then?"

"I've asked, and they will not allow me to leave."

"Is that what your phone call to Alfred was about? A couple days ago, Barbara told me her dad has been working alone for weeks, so I rushed home as soon as I could to see if you were injured, only to find Alfred alone in the manor. When he told me you locked yourself away in Arkham a full month ago--"

"I should have told you, but I didn't want you to worry."

"I'm beyond worrying about you. Seeing you make impulsive, self destructive decisions every day for six years--six years while my brain was still developing and you took me along for the ride without a helmet--and I don't think I even can worry about you anymore. When I was a kid I thought you were like a god. Indestructible. Just. Now I see your stupid decisions as stupid decisions, decisions I have to watch you make and live with." The fury in Dick's eyes has dulled. He might not be worried, but his frustration masks genuine concern.

"I'm sorry, Dick, I really am. I thought I was respecting your wishes by keeping my distance, not dragging you back into this war."

"A little late for that. I love you, Bruce, I really do, and you honestly saved my life, but you're absolutely infuriating. A heads-up would have been nice instead of shutting me out again. Shutting everyone out again."

"If I never adop-"

"Don't start. Without you, Zuko would have killed me too. This life… I was on the path before I became what I was," He pauses, taking a slow breath, before looking into Bruce's eyes, assured and serious. "That’s why I'm thinking of joining the force, working from the inside."

"The police are corrupt."

"You think I don't know that? What else do you expect me to be, Bruce? A theatre major? I've thought this through. If I can fight corruption from the inside-"

"Like Gordon? He's one of the best men I know and is putting his all into making the force the best it can be, and look at the GCPD. You want to join that?"

"No, not in Gotham. I'm looking into Bludhaven."

"Every police force is the same."

"Yeah, a life of violence, power, and control brings out the worst in people. Trust me, I know. I'm gonna be in Gotham, fighting in your place while you're in here, but when you get out, I'm hanging up the suit. Please, come home. I know they won't let you out any time soon, but-" His voice lowers, "I know that you're aware that there are other ways." 


	3. Climax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate your patience and all of your comments. This chapter took a lot longer because motivation has been weird and I wanted to properly build up to the act one climax, so it's a lot more intensely introspective than this story has been thus far. Witty dialogue is more of my expertise, but the decisions being made need a lot more justification of motive, and mapping that all out and keeping it solid and believable is why this chapter took over a month despite being slightly shorter than the previous one. Thank you for reading! This is the first of two big moments I've been excitedly building towards since the get-go.

“A  _ little birdy _ told me you had a visitor.” Joker breaks their calm silence. It strikes Bruce how bizarre it is that he’s fallen into a level of deep comfort with Joker where they can wordlessly enjoy each other’s company. They sat in neighboring but mismatched chairs that face the television. Joker sitting on the arm of his, partially facing Bruce, face in his hand and elbow on his knee, and Bruce sits stiffly in his, feet placed apart and eyes on the television. He was aware of how often Joker’s eyes wandered to him, just like he was aware of all of Joker’s movements. Every minor sound, every minor shift in posture, and Bruce could picture exactly how he was moving. Part of the job. When a mouthwash ad played, all the bright smiles just reminded him of the man beside him, whose gaze keeps straying from the television as if he needs to remind himself that Bruce is real and there, or maybe because he just wants to look for the act of looking alone. He turns to look back at Joker now, the peace interrupted by his question. 

“And who is this little birdy?” 

“Oh, I think you’re well aware.” Joker says, holding Bruce’s gaze firmly, pausing long enough for Bruce to face the fact Joker knows Robin’s identity. There’s no real surprise, no sense of dread, not like there should be. “You know how well I’ve been getting along with Steve! He didn’t tell me, of course, but he didn’t watch his mouth either. Real gossip sometimes, or at least, an enabler if the person who’s gossiping is a weakness of his.”

“A weakness?”

“Ha! That’s what you question? Wouldn’t peg you for a romantic, Mr. Wayne.”

“I thought you were.”

“Oh? And what on Earth gave you that impression? Certainly not my colorful reputation. I’m a… What are the buzzwords? I think they called me an uncaring psychopath incapable of love in the Gotham Gazette. Now, that is fine by me, outdated terminology and all, but the picture they used was SO unflattering, and I resent being resigned to a puff piece on the seventh page. You were on the cover, I suppose that’s why I bothered reading at all. Jealousy, really.” Joker’s grin is teasing, a glint in his eyes daring Bruce to take it further, verbally acknowledge that layer of their dynamic.

“I see a different side of you than they do.” He replies simply, not giving Joker the satisfaction, but not denying him either.

“Wouldn’t you say that’s a weakness?”

“Would you?”

Joker hesitates. Bruce smiles without thinking. Joker’s eyes widen and dart to his mouth, before he slyly smiles himself. “Oh, I see.” 

“What is it you think you see?” Bruce says quickly, his smile leaving. Joker’s doesn’t. His eyes shine with playful glee--not murderous, but the softness is all the more concerning. 

“Am I  _ your _ weakness, Brucie-baby?” 

“I don’t have weaknesses.” Batman says automatically. Joker groans.

“You know I love the mask, dear, but you’re in Arkham. You clearly have weaknesses.”

Bruce stays silent.

“No fun! Will you at least tell me what the brat wanted?” Joker pouts and crosses his arms, the playfulness leaving due to the disappointment of Bruce not playing along. Bruce hesitates only for a moment, barely letting himself ponder whether he wants Joker to know. He can’t deny that part of him is glad Joker knows, glad to be able to discuss it with someone, to hear another opinion--even if the opinion is that of his worst enemy.

“He wants me to go home.”

“Do you?”

“I already tried once.”

“Hm. Worried about your precious city?”

“I wasn’t allowed to leave.”

“Gee, Brucie! I wonder what that’s like!” Joker’s grin strains and both of his hands land on his knees with a slap as he leans forward, getting into Bruce’s face. Bruce doesn’t flinch.

“You seem to get out plenty. I know the reason you aren’t out there right now is because you have someone keeping you here.” Bruce’s words get out before he processes them. He knows he’s right; Joker is having so much fun with this twist on their normal game--playing on the same side of the board--that it’s keeping the city safe. Staying here, not patrolling, not fighting injustice, is keeping the city safe from a madman, but he’s still been considering breaking out ever since Dick suggested it. 

“And to think you questioned my word choice.” Joker’s expression is serious. A powerful but subdued rage manifesting in a twitch of his mouth, a glint in his eyes. His face is still incredible close to Bruce’s, his tightly contracted pupils locked into him like bullets.

“Joker-”

“And then you wouldn’t even admit to it yourself.” Joker’s anger does not scare Bruce. He knows it should, he knows Joker has less control when his rage takes over, he knows he’s dangerous, but he isn’t afraid. He feels confident Joker won’t lash out now; he knows there’s more riding on his good behavior than normal. Bruce knows Joker doesn’t want to lose him.

“You didn’t admit it either.” At Bruce’s words, the anger melts off Joker’s face, and he just looks blankly at Bruce.

“So I didn’t.” He falls back into his seat, legs still draped over the arm but now facing the ceiling instead of Bruce. “Why are you here, Bruce? You clearly don’t want to talk. It’s stopped being funny, darling, it’s just sad. Hate to admit it, truly, but the kid is right. When you get like this, oh so intent on proving a point about something, probably just to yourself, it’s honestly embarrassing to watch. I don’t know how your butler puts up with you every day.” 

The silence between them is less comfortable this time. Not tense, not awkward, but empty. It hangs heavy in the air between them until Bruce finally breaks it.

“Did I tell you about the note I left him?”

“You haven’t.”

“He… I wasn’t thinking. I gave him control of the fortune and manor, it was a vague goodbye and-” Joker starts laughing.

“Again, how does he put up with you?”

“He’s really a saint.” Bruce sighs. His gaze turns back to the television and Joker’s laughing has faded by the time he speaks again. “He said he wants the next time he sees me to be on the car ride home.” Joker sits up at that, slowly, and crosses his arms over his knees, head resting on his hands.

“You know that can’t happen, right? You either open up enough for them to lock you in here permanently, which you know they would and I know you wouldn’t, or you stay cagey and just get worse. There really is only one way out of this place…” He trails off, his offer clear.

“One you’re good at.”

“Oh, indeed.”

Their silence resumes. Bruce watches the television, not quite absorbing anything. Over the next day, he lets himself think about his escape. He’s read Arkham’s blueprints, read the reports for countless other escapes in the past, and part of his mind is always running through how to escape from any given environment and situation he’s in, but he’s kept it passive; he was supposed to focus on recovery, after all.

Arkham isn’t a place for recovery, it is a place of captivity. The city needs Batman, and he needs to get out. The fact Dick and Joker both said the same thing, both drew the same conclusions, means something: Joker always hated Robin. He doesn’t entertain the thought that Joker could be lying. The lack of humor in his voice as he spoke… He was serious. 

He was offering a way out. 

No, he can’t go that far. Whatever peace they’ve come to in Arkham’s walls is based on convenience; purely the result of extraordinary circumstances.  _ And a close relationship for nearly a decade… _

A working relationship, strictly as a vigilante and a criminal. He can’t pretend it’s normal, professional, but it’s his job. He’s Batman. 

“Batman” isn’t exactly a career path. The only rules are self-enforced, and his relationship with Selina certainly hasn’t been professional. She understands his life; she understands that he cannot give it up, settle down, really commit to a relationship, and he understands that she’s the same way. He stays convinced that she’s a good person, can justify her actions, even if he can’t approve. She steals, he gives chase, and they play their game across the rooftops every time she’s in town…

He plays Joker’s game almost every day of his life. Joker tells an elaborate joke with lives on the line, they fight. Joker flirts, Batman stays mostly silent, until they sit together in exhaustion, Joker detained, long enough to catch their breaths before the long drive to Arkham. The cycle repeats: new jokes, higher stakes. Sometimes Joker gets away. Sometimes everyone lives, sometimes hardly anyone does. Across it all are those moments, between them both throwing their all at each other, where they stop and breathe. Joker doesn’t think it’s fun if Batman doesn’t fight back, and though Batman can fight dirty, he has morals, and can grant Joker moments of peace. Their rhythm matches, and Batman’s blood pumps loudly in his ears. Sometimes Joker laughs, sometimes they banter, but sometimes the only sound is their ragged breathing. It’s a lot bloodier than chasing Selina across Gotham’s rooftops, but there’s the same rush. There’s a feeling of being so completely in the moment, actions calculated without the burden of much thought, everything just flowing. 

He tries to stay aware of his own power and his own violence. Most of Gotham’s criminals are regular people making mistakes, or driven to crime through economic or social pressures. He bangs heads together if he must, but some criminals are better fought by Bruce Wayne with rehabilitation programs and livable wages than by Batman with violence. He hates that the violence feels good, but cannot deny it. When someone with a lot of manpower like Cobblepot has him attacked on all sides, outnumbering him significantly, part of him relishes in it, the challenge of it all. Plowing through goons, dodging so they hit each other, throwing one at a row of others so they all fall, dodging and landing blows at the same time, everything flowing together as he works through a crowd as a blur, stopping only when he’s the last standing. It feels good.

When he and Joker lay in their own blood, taking just a moment of rest before getting in the batmobile, he feels at peace. Joker doesn’t want him to hold back, he can barely feel it and savors the closeness. He craves the violence more than Batman, and doesn’t hold back, knowing Batman can handle it.  _ We’re going to kill each other, aren’t we? _

He hates it. One time he told Joker he doesn’t want to hurt him, he wishes Joker could accept help, get rehabilitated, get off this path that only leads to pain… Joker told him that it’s too late for any of that. He can hear Joker’s laugh echoing in his head, telling him everything is all just a joke if you look at the big picture, see the absurdity and the irony. Bruce knows he’s right, they’re both too far gone for saving, but maybe they aren’t locked onto a suicide course like he initially thought.

Bruce is silent as they eat, and Joker barely looks at him. Steve sits a table away, talking to another guard, distracted. Bruce wants to say something; he feels like he needs to, and Joker isn’t breaking his silence. A majority of his time in Arkham, Joker’s eyes have been on him. He would be quick to comment on his gaze, or just coyly return it, but now, Bruce takes a moment to look at him, to really look at him. His face is neutral, the heavy smile lines still visible, but without strain. His skin is a sickly white, thoroughly bleached from his acidbath nine years ago, but without the facepaint, his dark circles are more visible. They almost seem to almost form blue triangles below his eyes, making him look as if he’s in clown makeup even without any of it on. Even his eyelashes are green. They’re often caked in makeup, white clown paint or occasional blue or black paints and powders, but without the makeup they’re striking. Joker doesn't eat much, Bruce has noticed. He eats his lasagna carefully, laboriously cutting small pieces with his purposefully dulled fork as he goes. It's humanizing, if a little concerning; he assumes it's entirely physiological, given almost every aspect of his condition. Despite his slow caution, the pasta sauce is still smudged slightly next to his mouth, almost like a painted smile. Bruce fights back the urge to reach over and wipe it off with his thumb.

Bruce has hardly touched his food himself. He isn’t exactly picky: he has Alfred give him half of his meals blended for nutrients and efficiency, and he traveled the world for eight years without his fortune, eating plenty of unusual things to get by. Cubed meat, however, is where he draws the line. 

Joker’s green hair looks nearly brown under the warm, buzzing lights. It falls in his face more whenever he’s in Arkham; he assumes Joker normally uses some sort of mousse to keep it going in the direction he prefers. The difference isn’t drastic, the public probably wouldn’t notice, but Bruce does. His hair is slightly longer, too, falling close to his eyes, closer when he looks down at his plate. His gaze still has not risen to meet Bruce’s. They haven’t exchanged any words since Joker’s offer in the rec room.

“This situation reminds me of a joke.” Bruce says, finally breaking the silence. Joker’s eyes shoot up to meet his.

“Oh?” He asks, a smile cautiously starting to spread across his face.

“Well, stop me if you’ve heard this one: there were these two guys in a lunatic asylum…” He trails off, and the look on Joker’s face makes his breath hitch. 

“I think I have, but I want to hear how you tell it.” His voice is quiet and his gaze intense, he sets down his dull fork. Bruce knows he could still do plenty of damage with it, even with the asylum’s precautions, but he wouldn’t, not now. Joker rests his chin on his hands. His smile is soft, tentative, real. His breathing is slow, even slower than usual, every part of him waiting on Bruce’s next words, hopeful and eager. 

“Well, it’s not much of an asylum, in the denotative sense, and these two guys don’t feel a sense of refuge within its walls.”

“That’s a little different from the way I always told it. I wonder, is the next line the same?” Joker’s eyes are wide, and his pupils dilated beyond their normal pinpoints, waiting for Bruce to say everything he wants to hear, and so he does.

“Yes, and then the rest I want you to help me tell.” Bruce’s words come out assuredly, not reflecting the doubt whirling in his mind. As idiotic as this plan is, as much as he wants to convince himself that he’s making a mistake, the point stands that he was only making things worse for himself, and a friend offered help.

_ A friend… _

“I would be honored.” Joker says quietly, his grin the widest and most genuine Bruce has seen, but with that stupid smear of pasta sauce on the left corner of his mouth. Without thinking, Bruce reaches across the table and brushes his thumb across Joker’s cheek, starting from the corner of his mouth, his other fingers brushing Joker’s chin. He pauses for a second, staring into Joker’s wide eyes, his smile faltering from surprise, breath hitching, before Bruce quickly removes his hand and straightens in his seat.

“You had pasta sauce on your face. It looked…” Bruce pauses and clears his throat.  _ It looked familiar…  _ “Stupid.”

“Hmm…” Joker’s smile returns with force. “Can't keep your hands off of me, can you? Looking for excuses to touch me?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh it’s fine with me, darling, I don’t mind the PDA.”

“It’s not-”

“And I guess you couldn’t let your man look silly, could you?” Joker starts laughing at the word silly, and has to clutch the table struggling to breathe. Bruce sits silently, patiently waiting for Joker to regain control of himself. His laughing fits are more intense and less voluntary when he's experiencing real emotion, Bruce has noticed, and he knows he pushed Joker to this.  _ Selfish _ . “Extra extra! A real joker on billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne’s arm tonight, the smear on his face is a bad look. Oh, and he’s actually the Joker, y’know, known super criminal, tormentor of the city, and all that? But that’s significantly less of an offense.” Joker cracks up again, and Bruce becomes aware of the amount of scared eyes on him from the others in the cafeteria.

“Joker.” He says sternly.

“Oh don’t think I can’t see your amused expression. You can fool everyone else with your artificial cool, but not me! I’m used to it.” He reaches across the table towards Bruce’s face, but Bruce grabs his wrist before Joker can touch him. “You know that’s not fair.” He scoffs and pulls his arm back, rubbing his wrist despite the fact Bruce knows he put hardly any pressure on it.

What was he thinking? Easy: He wasn’t. It was a temporary lapse in judgement, the pasta sauce was annoying. It was purely impulse, nothing more, no matter how much Joker thinks it was.

Even in his own mind he’s deflecting; he agreed to Joker’s escape plan and didn’t even ask what it entailed. He’s hitting a new low. He stares at the ceiling of his cell that night, dull concrete stained with water damage. No matter how much it’s referred to as his room, how much everyone in this place are referred to as patients instead of inmates, Arkham is a prison. It has never been a good facility; it wasn’t even a consideration when Alfred had him institutionalized as a child, and he was sent to Innsmouth upstate instead. Arkham has always been a prison. Its own architect, while building the asylum, had a seemingly random psychotic break that resulted in the murders of several construction workers, and his own imprisonment in Arkham’s walls. Amadeus Arkham himself's mental health spiralled from the time of Arkham’s completion until his own death, as if the building itself were cursed.

Bruce doesn’t personally believe in Arkham's occult angle, but the jarring contrast between the building’s gothic exterior and almost brutalist interior, the century of poor upkeep, and the history of corruption in the staff is damaging, even without a mythical curse. He’s poured money into Arkham within recent years, hoping to improve the facility enough to genuinely help the people he puts within its walls, but looking around makes it hard for him to believe that it has gotten better. Leland in particular is trying her best, and the rec room tv is thinner than the reinforced cell walls, but the oppressive atmosphere is suffocating. Most of his funds must go into post-escape repairs. He has to assemble and thoroughly vet a committee to sort through his funding and how it’s applied when he gets out of here, and funnel more resources into the project.

He needs to start investigating Hugo Strange. He hasn’t been able to observe much, other than the loosened restraints on Joker and their schedules being tied closely together during his time here, but there has to be a bigger picture he isn’t yet seeing. It will require a full scale investigation as soon as he gets back to the cave.  _ Soon… _

“You had a recent visitor.” Leland had remarked the morning after his talk with Dick, clearly intending to focus their session around that fact, and retrospectively Bruce thinks it was most likely the last one. He evaded more severely than normal, keeping his answers incredibly short. Answering her questions without anything to latch onto. She had given him another speech about how he needs to open up to her if he wants help. She still hasn’t given up on him. She’ll be disappointed to see that he’s given up on Arkham.

He does not yet know what Joker is planning, but suspects it's already in motion. He knows Joker is well aware of his stance on destruction and violence, and trusts that he won’t risk making Bruce reject his grand gesture. There is a chance of self defense killing, but he thinks Joker will stay grounded enough to not lose sight of his goal.

Joker is not always held down to reality. Bruce doesn't know how much is psychosis, or really anything about how it manifests for Joker mentally, but he sees it. Joker is thought of as pure chaos, but he has rules. Bruce can't deny that he prides himself on being the only person who can consistently figure them out. When Jim asks for details after a case, asks about how he figured out Joker's plan, he simply replies  _ because I'm Batman. _ Jim is always a little annoyed, but ultimately unsurprised. He wouldn't get it anyway. Even Alfred can hardly follow his logic, even though he always talks to him through it all. Talking Alfred through the details, through where he's going, what he's doing… It helps. Then when he gets to Joker, his comm is silent. It's just the two of them, and whatever hostages or hench people. Harley and Robin used to mostly handle each other. Deep down he thinks all four of them knew what they were doing, knew that ultimately it just had to be Batman and Joker alone. It started that way, on the bridge in Ace Chemicals, and Bruce has always assumed it will end that way,  _ we're going to kill each other, aren't we? _

Joker only loses touch with reality when all his rules are breaking, being broken by someone other than him. Joker knows him well enough to always factor Batman into his game; the way he tends to break things is worked into the ruleset itself. It's frustrating to fight against. Riddler thinks he's the biggest intellectual rival to Batman, but he's so focused on himself and his own intellect. His hubris always costs him. He's formidable, but Batman is better. Joker, on the other hand, doesn't care about traditional victory. He wants to make a point, win something personal. Even a batmobile ride to Arkham could be his victory. He wins in the effect he has on Batman, on Gotham. He wins in every person he convinces that he’s more than a man, that he’s something scarier and deeper. He wins in every moment of moral hesitation he causes in Bruce, wins in every person he makes a punchline. He wins when Batman gets it, when he understands the joke, even if he doesn't find it funny. 

Joker always knows when he gets the joke, even though he hardly ever laughs. The few moments he does, the moments where the masks slip away and the absurdity of it all rains on their faces, when he and Joker’s shared laughter rings through the night, the moment feels infinite. Sometimes he struggles to convince himself that Joker is just a man, not the monster he makes himself out to be, but in those moments where they share a deep, genuine laugh, the inverse is true; he struggles to remember that Joker isn’t just a man, that he isn’t just an old friend. 

_ Isn’t he, though? _

Nine years. Two alone, then there was Robin, and Harley a couple years after. The four fought two years or so before Harley moved on, Robin soon after. This past year they’ve been alone yet again, just as it all started that fateful night in Ace Chemicals, and just as they are now.

“Joker.” Bruce says simply, acknowledging the new hole in the ceiling.

“Batsy, dear, can I just say how much harder it is to concoct an escape plan where no one dies? You better appreciate all this effort! Making an explosive or a shiv? Easy peasy! Figuring out how to dissolve chunks of concrete to pull you out discreetly through the ceiling? Talk about high maintenance. How’s your vertical leap without those stupid lifts you wear in your batboots?”

Bruce jumps from his bed and easily grabs a hold of the edge of the hole Joker melted into the ceiling, pulling himself up next to him. The crawlspace is small, but they’re both used to maneuvering through vents and ducts that weren’t meant to hold them. 

“A simple thank you would be nice. I know my cafeteria privileges will suffer if you throw me back in here again. Funny how people forget how genius of a chemist I am, but here I am reminding them just for you,  _ Batman _ .” Joker says his name with a level of casual, teasing affection that makes them both pause. Joker’s eyes widen as it hits him that they’re finally alone together again. No more codes, no more thinking about optics, no more needing to stay on good behavior. The shadows fall on Bruce’s face, the only light coming from the hole in the ceiling, illuminating primarily his chin. He can finally be Batman again. “It’s been a while since I got to call you your real name, Batsy.”

“What’s the rest of the plan?”

“Hm. I guess the politeness left with Bruce Wayne. Gotta admit, I liked him, even though I missed you.”

“He isn’t a different person.”

“I know better than most, no need to lecture me, Bats.” Joker seems to relish in addressing him as Batman again, savoring the name with every variation he uses. “Right this way! We’re heading to the roof.” He begins to crawl away from the hole, and Bruce follows. 

They barely manage to squeeze between a few of the pipes, but Joker expertly leads them along a twisting route, avoiding the impassable walls of piping and always with just enough space to maneuver. Bruce wonders how often he’s crawled through Arkham's ceilings. He leads them to a duct angled upwards with a bedsheet rope attached to a disabled fan at the top. They both climb easily, wordlessly, and keep going. Every element of the route is thoroughly mapped and accounted for, every climb and every block. They only needed to go up two floors to get to the roof, and Joker’s route doesn’t require leaving the crawl spaces at all. 

“Batsy, would you be a dear and kick open that grate up there? I could do it myself, of course, but…” Joker waves his hand flippantly and Batman squeezes past him. He braces himself on the walls of the vertical vent and presses his legs against the grate until the bolts snap loose and he easily jumps onto the roof in a masterful crouch. Joker slips through behind him. 

“What now? Flashlight?”

“I don’t reuse my jokes, Batman, who do you think I am? No need to stay so hung up on the past.” Joker crosses his arms and rolls his eyes, then walks a few yards away, knocking at the ground in spots until he seems satisfied, then he pulls open a panel and removes… “I stole it from Kiteman and modified it. Love that guy, honestly, what a joke! The fact amateurs like him try so hard to stay in the game keeps everything fun. The contrast between people like him and the rest of us is incredible.” He shakes out the kite,  _ AHAHAHAHA  _ and his signature grin painted on, and gestures for Batman to join him. “It can hold two, I’ve seen him use it in an attempt to pick up chicks. Of course, we’ll be very close, but I know we can be men about it.”

Bruce walks over slowly as Joker hooks up the kite, the absurdity of every decision that led to this weighing heavily on him. Joker spreads out his arms, making grabbing motions with his hands, and Bruce lets the Joker wrap his arms around him. The feeling of his stomach dropping as Joker grips him tightly and the ground disappears from under him is the most intense, physical emotion he’s felt in a long time.

He’s flown before, certainly. He’s been carried by people who can fly, he’s been in every existing type of flying machine money can buy, and he’s been thrown from at least half. He’s glided between buildings with only the wind resistance on his cape keeping him in the air, he’s jumped open bridges and off parking garages in the batmobile, he’s done pullups off the top of the Wayne Enterprises helicopter pad, but this feels different. His city he loves, which he hasn’t gotten to see in weeks, stretches out under him, then gradually gets smaller and smaller as Joker takes them higher and higher. He can feel Joker’s manic, compulsory laughter, the man’s automatic response to the excitement. He can feel it in the shaking of the arms tightly holding him, on his back as he’s held tightly to Joker’s stomach, and in the puffs of hot breath on the back of his neck. He feels dizzy as he watches the spinning lights of the city disappearing in the clouds. 

Joker has complete control over him. Joker could drop him, could take him anywhere. His arms are tight around him, and Bruce can barely move, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to squirm in the clown’s grip, doesn’t want to fight him. It isn’t out of a fear of falling, he knows instincts would kick in and he’d figure out how to survive. It isn’t out of a fear of the Joker. This is the most clear and at peace his mind has been since checking himself into Arkham, since his falling out with Dick, since… He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this at peace. 

Bruce constantly fights for control. He genuinely, firmly believes that it’s necessary for the safety of Gotham, for his family, for the world, for him to be capable of tracking and subduing everyone he knows. He knows people, he understands people. He trusts that he can accurately predict how the people in his life will handle difficult situations, and assigns them tasks, missions, based on that knowledge. He trusts that Gordon will prioritize human life when push comes to shove, that his ‘by the book’ mentality will fall when it contradicts his own intense moral code. He trusts that Jim Gordon is a good man first, police commissioner second. He trusts that Alfred will do whatever it takes to keep Bruce safe, even if that call would be worse for the city or the world. He trusts that Joker will not drop him, will not use this moment to bomb the city, that if Joker has a bigger plan here, he won’t ruin all this buildup now. He won’t squander everything they’ve built in Arkham, and Bruce deep down knows he won’t either.

He doesn’t run the variables, he doesn’t think about how wrong this could go, he doesn’t think about what comes next, he just holds the arms holding him until a spotlight lands on the kite.

“Why is it that every time I try to have a bit of harmless fun with you, the police get involved?” Joker scoffs, and Bruce feels his words vibrating through him as he says them.

“Well, you do always break the law.” 

“HA! Glass houses, my dear.” 

The sound of sirens pick up and the bat-signal switches on almost immediately. He hears helicopters take to the air. Bruce Wayne, several years ago, made donations to the GCPD in an express attempt to improve the screening of new officers, moe in depth training for everyone, and nonlethal options for the force, but the corruption hardly improved while the lethal options just got stronger, so he stopped after his first attempt. He directed in money to attempt to lobby for structural changes, while providing funding for social work and rehabilitation instead. Regardless, the militarization of the police department was always justified by Mayor Hill using mentions of the supercriminals housed in Arkham and the mere existence of Batman. Jim would always just shrug and light another cigarette, admitting he has no control over where the money goes. The bags under his eyes get deeper every day, with every call he has to make, with every corrupt officer he can reprimand and every corrupt officer who is untouchable, never properly breaking the law.

A less stubborn man than Jim would have quit years ago, but he stays, convinced he can clean up the GCPD by the book. Bruce Wayne is a friend of Jim Gordon, even if he isn’t in on his secret. He knows Jim is going to take this personally, and his bias is going to cause more officers after Bruce than reasonable. He can easily justify it by mentioning the Joker, no one will ask questions.

“What’s the plan?” Batman asks.

“Why do I have to be the plan guy? Isn’t that your job, Batsy? Hey, aren’t you all chummy with these pigs anyway?”

“I have a few friends, but there are no strings to pull there now. Not now, not with you.”

“Embarrassed to be seen with me? Ouch.”

“If I get to the batcave--”

“Ooohohoh no, you can’t get near the manor right now. Not while  _ Bruce Wayne _ has escaped from Arkham with yours truly. You have to worry about the three P’s: The press, the pigs, and the pressing PR nightmare. We have to go to my place.”

Bruce’s stomach drops again, in a different way this time, as his racing thoughts catch up to him and the sound of sirens echo through the night. Joker’s grip feels strangling instead of comforting as he realizes the clown is right. He figured Joker had something bigger to gain from breaking him out of Arkham, even bigger than the act of Bruce accepting the offer in itself, but he didn’t think about it. He just carelessly played into Joker’s hand. They might have escaped Arkham, but that’s now on Bruce Wayne’s public record alongside an association with the Joker. He can’t go home now, not until he figures out how to fix it. He can’t face Alfred, he can’t face Dick, but Joker is there with outstretched arms to pull Bruce Wayne into his world.

“Don’t worry, darling, I won’t let them take you back, and we can go back to normal as soon as the press gets bored. It isn’t like you haven’t had scandals and disappeared before.” Joker’s voice is quiet, directly in Bruce’s ear, and Joker laughs reflexively when he feels the shiver go down Bruce’s spine. His laugh turns genuine and echoes through the cold night as he quickly pulls the kite up higher. The chase begins.


	4. Domesticity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deeply appreciate every comment and have read each one several times. I am grateful for all the support on this story, and I hope you all enjoy what I think is a comparatively light chapter before the core emotional arc goes wild in the next two parts. Thank you!

Joker’s cackles echo through the night, and Bruce becomes hyper aware of how inexperienced the clown is with that kite. Joker holds him tightly, suffocatingly so, and pulls them up and down, into the clouds and nearly skimming the concrete, weaving around buildings and narrowly missing the two helicopters. He knows Gordon is insisting on his men holding their fire, and as corrupt as the majority are, Bruce knows the officers are too concerned with a potential lawsuit from the Wayne estate to go against orders.

They follow along, weapons aimed but not firing, waiting for Joker to go down. Bruce has absolutely no idea what he’s planning. He’s well aware of his own privilege, but with everything that the faculty and inmates in Arkham have already seen, he doubts he could shift the blame to Joker without anyone catching on. The concept of throwing Joker under the bus doesn’t sit right with him; even though he knows he’s played directly into Joker’s hand with a series of increasingly bad decisions, Bruce still regards his role as selfish.

“Brucie, my pal, I think this is where we get off.” Before Bruce can reply, gravity hits. He watches the kite fly away as he feels Joker’s chin on his shoulder, cheek against his. “This is the part where you save us, Bats.”

Of course, Bruce had been running through potential scenarios in his mind the entire time they were evading the police, but he would have preferred a heads up. He grabs one of Joker’s hands and unwraps himself from the man, positioning them both with maximum wind resistance. He doesn’t bother telling Joker to relax his muscles, knowing he’s already calm as can be. Without the suit and with the Joker, this is significantly more difficult than a normal emergency falling situation would be, but he knows Joker wouldn’t have let them drop without complete certainty in Batman’s abilities. As Gotham River gets closer, Bruce looks to Joker, whose eyes are closed. “You’ve certainly done this before.” He says before letting go of Joker’s hand and tucking his arms closely to his sides, legs together, feet angled towards the water. Joker laughs and Bruce assumes he does the same, or does whatever else he normally does when falling into water like this. After about the third time he watched Joker survive a seemingly impossible fall into Gotham River, still so soon after his initial debut, part of Bruce started to think there was something more to his ability to cheat death. He never entertains that thought for long--Joker is just a man and it’s important to him to remember that--but hearing his laugh, one without a hint of fear, just blissful certainty that everything is working as he imagines, it’s easy to forget, to think he’s greater than human. 

The sirens, the laughter, and the rush of the air all quiet with a pop as the water rushes up around him. Bruce’s body aches immediately, from the force of the impact and the shock of the freezing water, but without hesitation his eyes open, and he swims in the direction of Joker. His eyes burn as he fights through the dark water, barely able to see him in the refracted moonlight. Joker’s eyes are closed, his expression peaceful. Batman grabs him. He swims up, away from the darkness, one-armed. The dim light grows brighter. His head breaks the surface and he takes a deep, gasping breath, but keeps moving, Joker’s life in  _ his _ arms this time.

He maneuvers Joker to his back to keep him afloat easier, and starts paddling towards the shore. His legs are numb, his face still burning. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears, desperate to warm him up, as he pushes Joker onto the bank. His hands don’t leave him; gloveless, numb fingers on his waist and shoulder. Batman shakes him.

“Joker, you’ve survived worse. If feigning unconsciousness is a joke, the punchline would only be fractured ribs from the chest compressions.”

One eye opens, water immediately falling in from his green eyelashes and causing him to squint. “Aw, no mouth to mouth?” He starts wheezing, something between a laugh and a cough. He sits up, hand to his chest, and turns his head away from Bruce, coughing up water with a pained “HA!” 

“Mouth to mouth is no longer standard practice.” Batman says and stands up. He watches the lights of the police helicopter fade into the distance. “Where is your hideout exactly?” The cold night air, which felt refreshing as they soared above Gotham, now feels scathing on his skin. He misses his suit’s temperature regulation capabilities. 

Joker jumps to his feet, “Well, y’see, Bats, I’m really putting myself on the line here trusting you to this, with your job and all.”

“Joker.”

“Hey! I’m not being unreasonable, here. I’m taking you there just… Don’t tell anybody. This stays between us, capiche?” Joker levels a serious look at Bruce, and he notices an underlying level of vulnerability.The subtle tension around his mouth and the softness in his eyes, barely visible in the moonlight, make it clear to Bruce. 

“You aren’t being unreasonable. You broke me out of Arkham, after all.” Batman replies flatly, and the words hang between them, the details left unsaid but acknowledged. Joker opens his mouth, as if he intends to ask the question they’re both pondering, but instead he turns and starts walking. Bruce knows Gotham’s geography like the back of his hand, and his suspicion of another Amusement Mile hideout solidifies. With the direction they flew from Arkham, he had assumed it was between the decrepit theme park and Wayne Manor, that list shrinking after Joker insisted on staying away.

The walk is freezing, and he isn’t as accustomed to the physicality as he was before his stay in Arkham. The thin air is getting to him; he has endured worse, and certainly isn’t struggling, but it is uncomfortable nonetheless. Joker is humming, but he doesn’t recognize the tune. 

“Are you cold?” He asks after about seven minutes have passed in near silence.

“Why, Batsy, are you worried about little ole me? I’m flattered.” Joker replies with a grin.

“Just curious.” They walk in silence for a while longer.

“Was that meant to be smalltalk? It’s winter in Gotham, we just went swimming, and we’re in these thin, horribly unflattering uniforms.” More time passes in silence as they walk. They steer clear of lights, keep to the shadows, but don’t dart around. As long as they aren’t illuminated, no one should notice the fact they are two infamous figures in Arkham uniforms. The ferris wheel is dark against the moonlit, cloudy sky. “Are  _ you  _ cold?”

“I’m Batman.”

“Was that a joke?”

He doesn’t answer. He looks across the river; he can see the Robert Kane memorial bridge from here, dim lights flickering in the dark. He’s so close to home. There are many ways to get into the batcave; many high security routes with entrance points all across the city. He could easily slip in without the police or press catching him. He could easily leave Joker and go home.

That unspoken question still hangs in the air:  _ “Why?” _

Why take Joker’s help? Why go with him to his hideout? Why not just go home? Why tie not just Batman, but Bruce Wayne so closely with Joker? Why speak to him at all that first day in the rec room? In the cafeteria? In group therapy? In the batmobile after fights? At the reservoir? Why not _ let him die? _

He thinks about the questions without allowing his brain to drift towards an answer. He knows that’s unhealthy, he knows that’s stopping him from thinking clearly, but how healthy would any answer be? Is there any possible answer that wouldn’t just hinder his judgement even further? 

Joker pulls back a section of the gate and ushers Batman through before placing it back as it was. His humming picks up again as he maneuvers behind battered booths and around trash. Bruce follows and they enter the mirror maze. There’s graffiti scratched in some of the mirrors, chewed gum stuck to the floors, and Joker moves through with complete ease. Batman continues to follow, unable to shake the feeling that it’s all a trap. He circles back around to his thoughts of playing directly into Joker’s control, doing exactly what he wanted all while thinking he was being the selfish one. Acute dread settles in, but he does not falter as he follows Joker. 

Eventually, Joker stops in front of a specific mirror. He looks into his eyes and smiles before his gaze travels down to his attire. He shakes his head, and pulls back the mirror, with only slight magnetic resistance. “Come on, Batsy, fresh clothes soon.” He gestures through the gap in the wall, and Batman slips through. Joker follows, moving the mirror so it snaps back into place. The dim nightlights of the mirror maze now shut out, the room is completely dark. Joker accidentally hits him while groping around in the darkness, and then he hears a tile move in the floor, a hidden hinge squeaking. He hears Joker maneuver downwards, and then with a click, a lightbulb illuminates a wooden ladder stretching downward into a hidden room. Joker looks up at him from where he’s crouched on the top step, arm reaching over the edge of the railing, hand on the pull switch. “Come on in, Batsy my dear, mi hahacienda es su hahacienda.” He jumps to his feet, while still on the narrow top step, and practically skips down the stairs. Batman walks after him at a much slower pace, taking in his surroundings.

He assumes there’s a second exit. Joker is smart and knows the necessity in having options. There’s Joker’s typical graffiti and doodles covering the walls and furniture, chaos but with a vision. It’s cohesive. The framed portrait of Snagglepuss over the couch seems out of place at first glance, but given the character’s catchphrase and Joker’s affinity for classic cartoons, he gets the punchline. To the right of Snagglepuss--the cat’s left--is a bookshelf filled mostly with unlicensed Batman merchandise. Of course, there is no licensed Batman merchandise, but the street vendors of Gotham get creative. There’s certainly a market, and it isn’t worth cracking down on, even if the sheer volume of bad products on the shelf almost makes him rethink his priorities. 

Amongst the street vendor merchandise, he sees batarangs, what looks like pieces of his cape, and--

“Joker, when did you steal my shark repellant?” Batman asks sternly as he takes his last step off the ladder. Joker just starts laughing.

“I could mix up copper acetate and boric acid in a pinch myself, of course, but the fact you kept it in your utility belt for three years? Specifically in case of sharks?” He barely composes himself enough to talk before howling again. He starts to sit on the yellow leather couch, but pauses and jumps back up before touching the fabric. “Ugh, almost forgot! No touching the furniture until we clean up; this is my one nice place. Would you be a doll and close up the ceiling? The stairs should fold right back up there…” Bruce does as he’s asked and the ceiling closes up. He feels more closed in than before: He’s in an underground bunker with the Joker, and he just shut the door willingly, doing exactly as Joker asked, without a second thought.  _ Why? _

Sometimes it’s better for the answers to stay locked away, confined to a small corner of his mind behind walls of denial. 

“You’ll be pleased to learn that I have working plumbing! I worked with a guy a while back, circus clown from Vegas. Used to be a plumber. He got an in with Cirque, probably elephant toilets back before they got boring, and somehow scored a real job. I missed some parts in the middle, some people take forever to get to the punchline! Gambling addiction, broke clown code, disgraced, took up crime to pay the bills, but never threw away the red nose. Of course, I’m always there for people like him. Make sure you thank whatever his name was when you use the shower; if there’s an afterlife he might hear you.” Joker starts laughing, as he often does at the mention of death, especially those he’s caused. Bruce doesn’t react. Instead of thinking about his lack of an emotional response, pondering the numbness Leland pointed out to him, he changes the subject.

“I want you to stay in my sight.” His voice is lower, defaulting to the pitch reserved for Batman.

“...while I shower?” Joker levels him a sardonic look. 

“No, that’s not necessary, I can wait outside.” 

“While…  _ you _ shower?”

Batman stays silent. Joker starts to howl with laughter; genuine humor but with the edge his more compulsory laughing fits possess. 

“I don’t know whether to be honored or insulted by your inconsistent level of trust.” He shakes with laughter and fights past it to speak before it takes over again. Batman waits as his laughter slowly calms. “I bring you into my home, my humble hahacienda, one that no one alive knows about, the one place I have completely to myself, where I keep everything that means anything to me, and you don’t trust me to sit pretty while you shower? Talk about trust issues.” His voice is sharper now, the humor fading. Instead of addressing any of what he said directly, Batman walks past him to the hallway, then stops at the first door. It’s opened inwards, and he sees the cloudy walls of the shower in a moderately sized bathroom. 

“I trust you’ll stay put while I shower?” He says, resting his hand on the doorframe and looking back over his shoulder at Joker. “I’m freezing. I’ll be quick, I promise. You mentioned dry clothes? That sounds great. I’ll leave the door unlocked.” The door closes before Joker can reply and he sighs. He starts taking off the soaked Arkham uniform and freezes, realizing he winked at Joker. The lines between Brucie Wayne, Batman, and wherever he exists in between are blurring, and Joker can clearly see him faltering. He steps into the shower, the warm water washing over him. He wanted Joker to feel trusted while not wanting to acknowledge or take back anything that was said, and he defaulted to his playboy act. Joker is outside the door, free reign of the hideout, free reign of Gotham, and all Bruce can do is trust him. 

He lathers up his hair with Joker’s three in one soap. The green apple smell is almost sickening, and the cartoon fish on the bottle has a crude smile drawn on its face. He notes the lack of face soap and thinks about how clear Joker’s skin always seems to be. Bruce doesn’t bother with an intense skincare routine himself by any means, but if he skips washing his face for a few days, his forehead reflects that. Even with all its tech, his cowl still traps oil in. He wonders if the chemical bath had any affect on Joker’s skin beyond the bleaching or if he’s always been like that. 

The door opens a crack. "Batsss? I have your clothes."

"Come in." Bruce replies as he rinses the green apple soap from his body. Joker steps inside, clothes in his arms. Bruce turns off the water. "Towel?" Joker opens the cabinet under the sink and tosses one over the shower wall to Bruce. "Thanks." He catches it and towels his hair and torso before moving the towel down and securing it around his waist. He opens the door of the shower and steps out, suddenly incredibly close to Joker in the small, steamy room. Time stops as they stand there, staring into each other's eyes, breathing slow. Bruce's mouth is dry, and his head runs empty. The steam thick in the air between them, the space feels infinite and non-existent simultaneously. Joker’s face is close, and Bruce can’t draw his eyes away, can’t blink, but his vision can barely focus as he stares. He takes in the micromovements in Joker’s eyes, ones probably mirrored in his own. 

Joker’s laugh breaks the spell. It falls out of him like hiccups: loud, painful, and entirely involuntary. Bruce doesn’t hear humor or anger, nothing typical of his laughter, as Joker shoves his hand in his mouth and bites down. He gasps down a shaky breath as the laughing subsides, and presses the folded clothes into Bruce’s arms. “My turn in the steamer.” He says simply and moves past him, brushing against him in the limited space. 

“Door closed?” He asks from the doorframe.

“What, do I look like an exhibitionist to you?” Joker says with a laugh as he turns on the water. Bruce catches himself smiling as he closes the door behind him. He leans back against the doorframe and closes his eyes. He takes a moment, inhaling and exhaling deeply, snapping out of whatever that was, before he finally looks at the clothes Joker handed him. There’s a black sweatshirt with his symbol in a bold yellow, black sweatpants with yellow lettering up the leg--the “O” in Gotham replaced by the bat signal, Batman boxers, and a fabric cowl.

He gets dressed where he is--Joker in the shower and no windows anywhere, so he might as well--and everything fits comfortably. He picks up the towel, slinging it over his shoulder, and holds the cowl in his hands. He genuinely considers putting it on, despite the fact it would be uncomfortable and completely functionless. Even with his identity exposed and without the rest of his suit, there’s a sense of security inherent to wearing a mask. Even without the physical mask, playboy Bruce Wayne is normally a mask as well, but standing outside the bathroom door in Batman sweats, he feels naked and vulnerable. 

He walks back over to the bookshelf and looks closer at the knicknacks. Most are visibly loose, easy to pick up if he chooses. There’s a varied assortment of Batman gear; a water bottle, lunchbox, some legos, a clock, various models of toy batmobiles, a yoyo, stickers, buttons, cufflinks, rings, and… Of course. The Batman water gun appears firmly attached to the shelf. There’s no visible mechanism in the shelf itself, but looking at the inappropriately placed trigger, Batman is certain he knows how to open the emergency exit. He considers opening it now, running to the nearest Batcave access tunnel while Joker showers.

He sits down on the couch. Spades, hearts, clubs, and diamonds border the wall across from him. A few masks hang in a column to the side; a tragedy mask with a smile painted on, a comedy mask with added angry eyebrows, and a poorly made rubber Bugs Bunny mask. A framed portrait of Batman hangs without glass, a single lipstick kiss and a few throwing cards stuck in the picture instead. A small cabinet designed to resemble Joker’s grin sits with an old television on top. The TV has a built in VHS player, and Batman wonders if the walls and ceiling are reinforced enough to prevent a satellite signal. 

He looks back down at the cowl in his hands. What does he think will happen here? That he’ll be able to just head back to the manor? That everything will just go back to normal? What’s the point of any of this? Checking into Arkham was supposed to help him, supposed to bring some sort of change, but he just went straight to Joker. Dick was right, Joker was right, and Leland was right: he can’t get help while still withholding his identity. He’s beyond help. He washed his hair in a shower built by a man killed by someone whose shampoo he borrowed and whose clothes he’s wearing. He feels warm and comfortable because of Joker, because of a man Joker took advantage of and killed, and he feels no grief. He laughed in the rain within earshot of Jim; after everything Joker had just done to the Gordons, Batman held him and they laughed. 

The cowl looks back at him, a limp mockery of the real thing. Thin, compliant, cheap, with no real protection or power behind it. Created not out of his goal to help, but as a mockery. A shell of what Batman is; the symbol without the meaning, without the purpose. One that belongs to Joker. 

The bathroom door opens, and Joker emerges wearing a sweatshirt printed with an approximation of his suit and flannel Batman pajama pants. His hair looks almost black with water, and he frowns when he looks at Bruce.

“And you still look naked.”

“Does my hair bother you that much?” Bruce asks, looking back to the cowl and back.

“You just don’t look like yourself. It’s still weird.” Joker crosses his arms and leans on the doorframe. The casualness is striking to Bruce; from his appearance to words to his body language. Looking at him, he can almost imagine a simpler life with both of them. One where this is a real studio apartment they share instead of a bunker, one where interactions like this are normal instead of baffling.

“I think this thing would look even weirder.” Bruce replies, holding up the cowl, the fabric flopping in his hands. 

“Try it.” Joker says, moving closer, arms still crossed. “I want to see.” Bruce does what he says. He had already examined the mask for itching powder or any hidden tech, of course, but the amount that night alone he’s done exactly what Joker had asked nags at him. He looks at Joker through the badly placed eyeholes and waits for his reaction. The left side of Joker’s mouth twitches as his eyes move to take in his whole face. Another twitch, this time his eyebrow, and his eyes move back down, staring at the exposed skin for a moment before a laugh takes him. A single “HA!” on reflex. His eyes move back up to meet Bruce’s. “It does, in fact, look stupid.” Bruce scoffs and removes the cowl, shaking his hair back in place, and looking back at Joker. Joker’s pupils are dilated beyond their normal pinpricks. Not by much, but enough for Bruce to notice, and enough for Bruce to immediately change the subject.

“Interesting sweatshirt; I thought the suit print gag was above you.”

“Well, you see, it’s funny because--” He stops and frowns. “I don’t explain my jokes, you know this.” He stands up and shakes his head before looking back to Bruce. “So, as far as sleeping goes, something that’s weird for you I know, I only have one bed and the couch...” 

“I’d like to see your bedroom.” 

“Rather forward of you, Bats.” Joker winks and Batman’s eyes narrow. “Alright, fine. This way.” He walks past the bathroom to the closed door at the end of the short hall. Batman follows, and watches as Joker opens the door. A king bed dressed to look like a Joker card sits in the middle of the left wall with a simple dresser on the other side. A chest is at the foot of the bed, locked, and the walls contain similar decor to the rest of the hideout. He assumes, justifiably, that all of the hidden storage is full of weapons. He decides against voicing or trying to verify that assumption, but needs to make sure Joker doesn’t dig into his weapon stash overnight. 

“I think this is big enough to share, if you don’t mind.” Bruce says, keeping his voice level. He does not look over to Joker, eyes remaining firmly on the bed, and the following silence does not persuade him to move his gaze. 

“If  _ I  _ don’t mind?” Joker finally breaks his bewildered silence, his voice not properly cloaking his emotion. 

“Yes. I wouldn’t want to presume--”

“Oh, of course, because I’m the one who’d be uncomfortable.”

“If you have a problem--”

“If I- If  _ I  _ have a problem?” Joker grabs Bruce by the shoulders and finally turns him to look him in the eyes. “Batsy, I am willing to play along, you know I am, and I know you have some angle here... I don’t care! Don’t tell me! But understand that I have self respect, and remember what I’m capable of.”

“Again, if you have a problem, I can sleep on the couch.” Bruce manages to keep his expression schooled as he looks into Joker’s frantic eyes. Conflict passes over Joker’s face, deliberating on something, before he sighs.

“You know I’m not opposed to the idea.” He says, a tired look on his face. 

“Joker…” Bruce starts before pausing. Joker’s eyes stay on him, waiting, while Bruce evaluates his impulse to comfort the man. A full evaluation would require unpacking too much, so he just proceeds. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You’d be dead by now if I wanted. You know that.” The fact he wants Batman alive is unspoken. It doesn’t need to be said; Batman understands.

“I know.”  _ You too. _

“Putting a fun spin on sleeping with the enemy, though I know you’ve done  _ that  _ before.” Joker’s normal exaggerated mirth is back as if it never left. He punctuates his sentence with a wink and grabs Batman’s arm. “C’mon, partner, gotta brush our teeth before hitting the hay. I don’t want to smell batbreath that close up.” 

Bruce allows Joker to walk him to the bathroom, accepts the toothbrush he’s presented without question (surprisingly Joker themed), notes the high end toothpaste, and brushes for the full two minutes as Joker hums to count time. It’s incredibly domestic, both standing in front of the mirror visibly confronting this reality while doing an incredibly mundane, routine action. Bruce’s typical bags and dark circles are notably lighter than usual, though still more intense than the average person. Joker’s hair is dark from the shower, the green a subtle tint, and his pajamas fit him loosely. Neither of them in bespoke suits, no uniforms, just the two of them in a small bathroom getting ready for bed. A bed they will share. He catches himself starting to smile and makes eye contact with Joker through the mirror. Joker smiles as well, not his normal grin but one that’s very slight, partially covered by his toothbrush. Batman looks away, looks back to his own face. Bruce Wayne, but in a Batman sweatshirt borrowed from Joker, standing beside him. 

His brain starts forming questions again, working towards answers. He sees that first abandoned factory in his mind, filled with corpses, all grotesque experiments. The bodies followed by more, preceded by an incident at Ace Chemicals, and all eventually leading to Joker finishing the tune he’s humming and spitting his toothpaste in the sink, waiting for Batman to do the same. 

And so he does. He follows Joker back to his room, gets in his bed, and the memories flooding his mind do not evoke the feelings of guilt they used to. They haven’t for years, he supposes, and he just never noticed. The memory of those feelings appearing like a reflex, the obligation filling the emptiness, until Leland pointed it out. No, the moment that’s playing in his mind the most fervently, with the most genuine emotion behind it, is Joker’s words from not long before.  _ “I have self respect,” _ he said. He didn’t elaborate, and Bruce didn’t push it. 

Joker lays on his side, facing away from Bruce at the edge of the bed, and Bruce lies on the other, mirroring his position. The silence lays thick between them. Bruce’s eyes close and he starts controlling his breathing.

In… 

He feels the covers tug lightly as Joker adjusts his position.

Out… 

He thinks of Joker spraying toxin onto a crowd of civilians.

In… 

Joker convulses with a choked laugh. 

Out…

He thinks of Joker’s arms around him as they soared through Gotham. 

In… 

He remembers the pasta sauce on Joker’s cheek, can feel himself reaching out, caressing Joker’s face.

Out…

That memory stays put. His hand on Joker’s chin, Joker’s eyes wide in surprise, his thumb slowly brushing away the pasta sauce. 

In…

In his mind he doesn’t let go. 

Sleep eventually takes him. He’s trained himself to become a light sleeper; every time Joker convulses with a laugh he drifts back into consciousness, and fades back out when Joker stills. Without windows, clocks, or Alfred, he has no idea what time it is. He has no idea what will happen tomorrow. He just lets Joker pull him along, in and out of sleep, filling his mind.

His thumb slowly brushing away the pasta sauce. Joker’s arms around him as they fly above Gotham. Standing in the bathroom, only a towel and a couple inches of steam between them. Their eyes locking across the Arkham rec room. Holding each other, laughing in the rain. Laying in their own blood, breathing heavily. Sitting in the batmobile, Joker calm in the passenger seat, during a long drive to Arkham. Quickly separating from Harley and Robin to face each other alone. Vignettes continue to play through Bruce’s mind, more and more added to the list, his mind moving between them rapidly as his consciousness waxes and wanes. His fist closes around bunched fabric, his position shifts with his mind as he tries to stay grounded, tries to redirect his dreams to a safer place.

He feels a warm hand tentatively brush over his chest. He sees Joker laughing, a soft, genuine laugh, a white glow around him from the rec room window. Sees him sitting incorrectly in one of the armchairs, watching the small TV. Peering out from the ceiling, smiling at Bruce proudly. He feels comfortable. The hand grows more confident and is followed by more warmth: arms around him, a head nestled into his neck. Bruce moves closer instinctively, and finally drifts off into a deeper sleep. 


	5. Different Tension

Bruce awakens suddenly, falling into consciousness with a sudden shock akin to falling into the Gotham River the previous night. He has no idea what time it is, and remains completely still, as if still asleep, while he evaluates his current situation. He cannot let on that he’s awake, he decides immediately, because to openly acknowledge his lucidity is to acknowledge his awareness of the fact Joker’s arms are wrapped comfortably around him. He has no choice but to wait this out. 

He thinks back to the night before, his own insistence on sharing a bed in the first place to make sure Joker stayed out of trouble all night. It was his initiative to put himself in this situation. Joker was reluctant.  _ “I have self respect,” _ he’d said. By the end of the night, Joker started to wrap his arms around him, and, feeling comfortable, Bruce leaned into his hesitant touch… 

He remains still as he feels a shiver go down his spine. He feels dizzy, and Joker’s warm, slow breathing on his neck isn’t helping. He had moved closer. Joker was hesitant, and Bruce moved closer. What the hell is wrong with him. 

Joker shakes slightly, a short guffaw in his sleep, before snuggling closer. Bruce wants to grab him, hold him tightly, and squeeze until he stops moving. He focuses on that thought, on criticizing the violent impulse, instead of acknowledging the twisting in his stomach that brought it forth.

Joker always looks peaceful when he’s asleep. He doesn’t dare look now, doesn’t dare move, but he’s knocked him out enough to be able to picture it vividly. His smile doesn’t leave when he’s asleep; though his signature grin is partially affectation, his face is most at ease with a soft smile. He tends to sleep on his side, and if he’s interpreting the body parts he can feel correctly, that is no exception now. Bruce initially attempted to sleep on his side, facing away from Joker, but he does prefer sleeping on his back, and had since ended up in that position. Joker’s right arm is over his chest, hand resting on Bruce’s left shoulder, and head on his right. His left knee bent in Bruce’s side, and his right leg straightened on top of Bruce’s right; his left shoulder tucked into Bruce’s right side, and though Bruce can’t feel where Joker’s left arm is, Bruce feels his own right arm wrapped firmly around Joker’s back, and his left hand tenderly holding Joker’s right shoulder. 

Mapping it out in his head barely helped in his pursuit of viewing the situation in a more detached, objective manner. In fact, it did the opposite, and his ongoing work of repressing unwanted, unproductive feelings has only gotten more difficult. If he stays in this situation with Joker much longer, they might pose an issue, might inhibit his judgement even further than they already are. He cannot allow that, any of it. He needs to figure his way out of all of this. 

Joker’s hand grips Bruce’s left shoulder tighter as he pulls himself even closer. Bruce feels like he is burning alive. He desperately hopes Joker wakes up soon, moves away, anything, because Bruce can barely turn his mind away enough to focus on his own breathing. In, out, the pressure of Joker’s right arm on his chest. In, out, his own right arm wrapped around Joker’s back, feeling him slowly breathing too. In, out, Joker’s breath on his neck. In, out, Joker’s breath so close he can almost feel his lips--

He cannot allow himself to go down this line of thought any further. Any train of thought he attempts to embark on just leads back to Joker, any distraction is interrupted by how utterly distracting Joker’s proximity continues to be. He wants to tighten his arms around him. He cannot let on that he’s awake, cannot do anything that reveals his own agency in the situation. He wants to tighten his arms around the Joker until he stops breathing so close to the bare skin of his neck. Wants him to gasp in surprise as he interrupts the space between his neck and Joker’s lips… 

His breath catches in his throat again. He must keep his breathing completely regulated. He must remain in control of himself, of all his bodily functions. He cannot be perceived as awake. This is so, deeply… Inconvenient. 

Batman doesn’t know how long time passes like this, his mind entirely taken up by a refusal to address his own thoughts and his body half taken up by the weight of Joker’s, until the clown finally stirs. Joker curls in on himself slowly, his grip tightening on Bruce, before he stretches back out with a muffled yawn. His right hand flat on Bruce’s shoulder, gentle, he starts to brace himself up with his other hand. Bruce can feel Joker’s gaze on him, and though his neck feels cold without the clown nestled into it, his face feels warm. Joker’s right hand moves from his shoulder to his face, softly brushing stray hairs away and lingering. 

“You’d hate to wake up like this, wouldn’t you?” He says softly, a startling amount of tenderness in his voice, groggy with a deeper, more raspy quality than normal. “Oh, Batsy. What in the world have we gotten ourselves into this time?” He chuckles to himself quietly and slowly removes his hand from where it’s cradling Bruce’s face. The bed dips as Joker sits up. He stays there for a bit longer, he’s stretching from what Batman can tell, and then he moves over. He lays down on the other side of the bed, the spot where he tried to go to sleep in the first place--where he might have remained if Bruce had stayed peaceful the night before.

“Now you can wake up with dignity.” Joker says with a sigh, “Never having to confront this.” He stays silent a moment longer before Bruce hears movement. “You never do. I’m sure dodging your own emotions takes more of your energy than dodging bullets.” From the sound of it, Joker is facing him now, still about a couple feet away. “I’m not complaining, dear, don’t get me wrong. You’re infuriating, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love you for it.” Batman has heard him express that sentiment before, it isn’t new information by any means, but hearing it spoken so softly, so closely, his right side still warm from where Joker just was, he feels it. A warmth rushing in his head, the words echoing in his mind, it takes a decent amount of mental effort to hold back a soft smile, and he can’t control his now racing heart rate. What the hell is wrong with him?

“This has been a nice change of pace.” Joker continues, “A departure from the normal plot. I know nothing has really changed, it never does… I don’t think it ever will.” Bruce can hear the smile in his voice. “One day, I guarantee I will be the one to finally kill you. I’ll laugh, and laugh, and I’ll win. No matter what happens, I win. Even if you finally have the gall to kill me, I’ll just be laughing in my grave, but I know you never will. I’ve pushed you far already, tested your limits, and I’ll just keep going. You wouldn’t have it any other way. You deny that, but you know it’s true; you know I give you purpose. You love the game as much as I do, and so it will keep going until the day one of us pushes too far, and victory is mine.” His laugh is sudden and shakes him like a cough, but spurs him into a moment of genuine, softer laughter. “I hope more than anything that the day never comes.” His voice is somber, and, judging by the projection of his voice and the movement of the mattress, he rolls over onto his back.

“I’m just going to close my eyes and pretend to sleep, give you a moment alone when you finally decide to wake up. Take your time! I know how you work.” 

Joker really has a way of making things worse. It’s a gift. He has a profound ability to outline exactly what Batman is doing in plain terms that cut through all of his internal logic and justifications, all of the layers of reasoning, and just make it all look simple and pointless. He makes everything absurd.

Bruce is incredibly well rested, and can’t genuinely fall back asleep. Joker knows how light of a sleeper he is, knows he heard everything, felt everything, and is rubbing it in his face by putting the next move completely into his hands. Playing along, but making Bruce admit to everything through his own role. Joker knows him too well. 

Bruce focuses on schooling his thoughts, his heart rate, his breathing… He almost feels cold without Joker holding him. He focuses on slowing his breathing and tries to enter a meditative state. His mind lingers on the feeling of Joker’s breath on his neck, and his heart rate speeds up again. 

This is frankly embarrassing. Bruce normally has an intense, impressive amount of control over his own mind and body, can normally ground himself from any horrors, any physical or psychological turmoil he faces, but the thought of Joker holding him remains overwhelming: Joker, known super criminal, a domestic terrorist who dresses like a clown, snuggled against him. Again, Bruce wonders what the hell is wrong with him. Did Arkham make him worse? Did it make him crazy instead of helping?

He held Joker laughing in the rain within earshot of his freshly tortured friend. They’ve exchanged soft smiles in batmobile rides to Arkham, layed in pools of their own blood, listening to the sound of each other breathing, feeling at peace in each other’s presence… He’s always had a distinct feeling of excitement, a pit in his stomach and a rush in his head, whenever Joker breaks out of Arkham, or reveals the first cue of a new plan.

In Arkham, he approached Joker first. He went out of his way to continually spend time with Joker simply because he wanted to. He took up Joker’s offer to get him out. He cannot blame Joker or Arkham for his own repeated initiative. He cannot blame Joker for the way he, himself, feels. 

Silence isn’t helping. Staying in his own mind isn’t helping; he isn’t calming down.

Bruce sits up, opens his eyes, and looks over to Joker. Sure enough, Joker’s eyes are closed and he’s snuggled into his side of the covers, but Bruce knows he’s awake. He wants so badly to grab him, but his mind is fuzzy on what his next step would be.

He was right about Joker looking peaceful. He looks so human with his face relaxed; visibly just a man, just like him, but with soft green eyelashes and the blue and purple of his veins visible under his pallid skin. His permanent smile lines are visible, but shallower than they normally appear. The sharpness of his cheekbones, his jaw, and his nose is in contrast to the round, softness of his lips. His lips.. bright red, as if stained or permanently inflamed, still slightly upturned at the corners even when completely relaxed. The suit print sweatshirt is mostly cloaked by the bunched up covers, but the glimpse of it is deeply infuriating. It did not play a part in Bruce’s visualization of Joker’s position earlier--it had slipped his mind--but if he had remembered, it might have genuinely helped kill the mood. 

Bruce realizes he has been staring at Joker without moving for entirely too long, especially considering the fact he knows Joker is awake. 

“Joker.” Batman says, his voice a deep gravel. Joker makes a big show of slowly stretching, yawning dramatically, as the covers fall to the wayside and his sweatshirt lifts with his arms, revealing a sliver of skin on his stomach.

“Aww, five more minutes, dear?” He says with a chuckle before wrapping himself mostly back around the bunched up covers, arms still exposed. He reaches out and makes a grabbing motion with one hand, looking smugly into Batman’s eyes. Refusing to give him the satisfaction, Bruce gets up, and grabs the covers from Joker to smooth out on top of the bed. His passive aggressive hospitality backfires as Joker latches on and refuses to let go of the covers; he just pulls the man close to him. Joker smiles smugly, face inches away from Batman’s, weight almost entirely supported by Batman’s fist around the blanket. Refusing to break first, Bruce meets Joker’s smug expression with a glare. Joker’s grin widens, maintaining intense eye contact. Bruce’s stomach twists, his face hot with anger, as he pulls Joker even closer, determined to make him break first. Joker’s eyes, normally intense pinpricks, dilate significantly, the green nearly overwhelmed with the insatiable blackness of his expanding pupils. Bruce feels as if he’s on fire, the whitehot rage overtaking him. He scowls and Joker’s eyes dart down to his mouth before meeting his eyes again, an expression of dazed anticipation on his face. Bruce almost starts shaking and breaks, throwing Joker back down onto the bed and turning away. 

A moment of silence--other than the sound of rushing blood pounding in Bruce’s ears--stretches between them. Bruce tries to calm his heart rate, his breathing, and refuses to turn to look at Joker. Joker doesn’t speak, and Bruce doesn’t hear the bed move either. Eventually, Joker breaks the silence.

“Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs?” He asks.

“What?” Bruce turns to look back at Joker. He’s laying on his back, and turns his head to meet Bruce’s eyes when he looks.

“I also have a few boxes of Lucky Charms, but I’ve already eaten all the marshmallows. It’s just stale brown stuff.” 

“I used to pick the marshmallows out of mine.” 

“As a kid?”

“Yes.”

“There is something seriously wrong with you.”

“Should I have brought that up in therapy?”

“Oh absolutely; you might’ve actually made a breakthrough if you had.” Joker says with a laugh and sits up. “Did you sleep well, darling?” 

Bruce makes a noncommittal grunt, not wanting to fully acknowledge anything that had happened the night before. Joker answers with a soft hum of acknowledgement before standing up next to Bruce. Incredibly close, he makes a show of shaking out the blanket with a graceful snap and smoothing it across the bed like Bruce had attempted earlier. 

“Now, let’s get you some disgusting, stale cereal.” Joker says, turning to Bruce and punctuating his words with a finger pressing into Bruce’s chest before walking to the door. Bruce follows him to the bathroom, where he insists they both brush their teeth before breakfast, and then back to his living room. The kitchen is on the other side of the ladder--which still folded against the ceiling. “Kitchen” is generous; not separated by any walls, it consists entirely of a red countertop over white cabinets, a steel sink built in, with more cabinets overtop. Playing cards and Joker’s normal graffiti decorate the white, alongside what appears to be blood stains. A basic chemistry set is on the one countertop without a cabinet overhead, right next to a bowl of fake bananas. 

Joker moves with purpose, quickly making his way over to grab two bowls from an upper cabinet and two boxes from a lower cabinet. He pours a dry bowl of Cocoa Puffs and a dry bowl of stale oat pieces, sticks a spoon in each, and sets them both down on the couch. “Bon appétit, mon chéri.” He says with an exaggerated bow before walking over to the TV to put a Looney Tunes VHS in. 

Bruce sits down on the yellow leather and picks up the bowl. Joker soon joins him, sitting far enough away that he can’t complain, but still close enough to get under his skin. He pulls up his legs to sit criss-cross, and Bruce’s eyes are drawn to the flannel Batman fabric covering them. Joker takes a big bite of his cereal before grabbing the remote to rewind the tape. Bruce takes a bite of his cereal. It is just as stale and disgusting as Joker described. He swallows and takes another bite. Joker stops rewinding long before reaching the beginning of the tape, and bounces slightly in his seat while he clicks play on “Rabbit of Seville _. _ ” Bruce takes another bite of cereal as the sound of gunshots rings out from the TV. Joker extends his arm, fingers in the shape of a gun, and mimes firing in perfect time with the cartoon before blowing off the imaginary smoke and taking another bite of his cereal.

“This one’s a real classic. You’ve seen it before, right?”

“Of course I have.”

“If you picked the marshmallows out of your cereal as a kid, I’m already pessimistic about how fun your childhood was, and I know you’ve grown up to be a real buzzkill.” Joker teasingly prods Bruce’s side before taking another bite of his cereal.

“Am I?” Bruce asks, near deadpan but with a slight teasing tone to his voice. 

“How doooooo…….”

“Are you going to sing the whole thing?”

“Welcome to my shop, let me cut your mop, let me shave your crop!”

Bruce groans and takes another bite of his cereal.

“Daaaiiintily,” Joker leans over, hands braced on Batman’s knees, to get in his face. “Daaaaintily.” Batman lifts up his cereal bowl and glares at Joker.

“Personal space.” he grumbles. Joker gives him a skeptical look, pointedly raising an eyebrow. “Don’t look so perplexed.” he says along with Bugs Bunny, his pitch remaining flat. A grin spreads across Joker’s face, and, as he lets out a surprised laugh, his arms slip and his head falls into Bruce’s lap. Bruce takes advantage of the now open space and lowers his bowl, taking another bite of cereal. Joker, noting the calm reaction from Bruce, hesitantly turns his head back to face the TV without moving away. At least he stopped singing. 

Soon, his bowl is empty. That’s all, folks, or it should be; this can’t go on for much longer. He doesn’t know when his hand landed on Joker’s head, when his fingers started combing through Joker’s hair, but he hasn’t stopped. He wants to redirect the blame, doesn’t want to acknowledge his own lucidity; he knows he is completely in control of his own actions, and yet he sits on Joker’s couch, tenderly stroking the hair of the costumed terrorist whose head is in his lap. 

He has to get out of here. His judgement is rapidly slipping, and he has no one to blame but himself. He can’t seem to hold onto any thoughts of Joker’s atrocities enough to ground himself. The horror fades away, and his thoughts just go to the fighting. He disgusts himself, but even that feeling is faint. 

“This can’t last.” He says aloud, mostly to himself, but Joker slowly moves back to sitting position.

“I know.” Joker says softly, hands still on Bruce’s legs and face incredibly close to his. 

“How does it end?” Bruce asks. The question had been hanging over them since that first meeting in Arkham, and, in a broader sense, since that first meeting after the Ace Chemicals incident. 

Joker sighs and moves away, picking up his still half full bowl of cereal from earlier and continuing to eat, no longer looking Bruce’s way. On the television, Bugs sits in a telephone booth as money pours out of the coin return slot. Bruce decides to take his bowl to the sink.

How can he possibly spin this one? 

“So. Hugo Strange?” Bruce stops the tap after rinsing his bowl and turns back to face Joker.

“What about him?”

“You seemed certain he was the reason we were allowed so much time together in Arkham.”

“Oh yeah. He’s a real piece of work. Have you met him?”

“Only on business.”

“As a Wayne or as a Bat?” Joker laughs as he gets up from the couch with his empty cereal bowl and starts walking his way.

“Both.” Bruce answers shortly. 

“So, not during your stay?” Joker asks, and Batman backs up against the counter as Joker reaches past him to put his bowl in the sink. He tries to ignore the way his breath catches in his throat. 

“No.” He says entirely too quickly. Joker pulls back from the sink and smiles knowingly at him, relishing in the moment before taking a comfortable step away. Bruce’s grip on the countertop loosens and his posture relaxes. “What evidence do you have against him?”

“Word of mouth, mine and some of the other loons.” 

“Elaborate.”

“He pulled back when golden boy big donor Brucey Wayne was in the vicinity, but he’s one of those fun, shocking, experimental types.”

“There’s been an unfortunate history of that in Arkham.”

“One you’ve fought against, I know I know. You chase corruption from the top and the bottom and barely make a dent. Well… In a way you did make  _ a _ Dent.” Joker laughs.

“I believed Harvey would have been good for Gotham. I still stand by my old belief in my friend.”

“Words, words, words.”

“What is the matter?”

“Left off the honorific. Sloppy, sloppy.”

“I’m not calling you ‘my lord.’”

“Shame. That would be nice.” Joker sighs, but his smile stays wide. Bruce scowls. 

“You seemed to think Strange was using you as a pawn.”

“Is now a good time to mention I don’t know how to play chess?”

“Why did you think he was trying to pit us against each other?”

“Batsy, baby, I know you’ve got internal bias here, but the way we view our relationship is not universal.”

“We? Now, how are you implying that  _ we _ view our relationship?”

“A mutual understanding. Now from the outside, what’s a man to think? Was Bruce Wayne using his secret identity as cover to get close to the Clown Prince? Do these two crazy kids even know who they’re dealing with? Is the joke on the clown? What if it isn’t a secret? There’s no way Batman and Joker would actually… Gasp! Team up and get along, is there? No, no, no. There has to be a scheme, why else would a dignified man like Bruce Wayne look past all the… Hmm… What’s the word?”

“Homicide?”

“Heavens, no! I was going to say crude humor. Your mind went to a dark place, no wonder you were in Arkham.” Joker puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head. His normal dramatic flair is minimized by his stupid suit print sweatshirt. 

“I can’t take you seriously in that sweatshirt. Just get to the point.”

“You’re one to talk with how tightly that sweatshirt fits on you. Horribly distracting.”

“It’s yours.”

“Ha! Do you seriously think that lessens the blow? Quite the opposite, my friend.” 

"Then that's an entirely different issue."

"Oh?" Joker's eyebrows waggle.

"Yes. Yours just looks stupid." 

“Oh THAT’S how you feel.” Joker says with a smirk, which makes it clear he doesn’t buy it. Batman scowls as Joker laughs. 

“What has Strange done?”

“Hmmm, back to business already? I can be professional on occasion, but I do like blending work and play.”

“Joker.”

“Geez, you’re no fun.” Joker throws his arms in the air and walks towards the ladder. 

“We’re both staying inside until this is figured out.”

“Oh, what, you think you can give me rules in my own house? Where do you get off? I’m behind in  _ Garfield _ . I know, it hasn’t been very good in years, but if I miss the funnies for a couple weeks, how do I know it isn’t getting better? I believe in Jim Davis, damn you, even if you don’t.”

He has a point. Not about Garfield--Bruce doesn’t think Jim Davis was ever funny, but after Joker went out of his way to free him from Arkham and open up his most secret home to him, how can he demand that Joker then stays locked up for him? Joker needs to go back to Arkham. Obviously this isn’t forever, obviously Joker needs to be locked away. Batman cannot let Joker leave until he has established his plan, but he has to be smart about his reasoning. He can’t just boss Joker around with their current arrangement.

“We need to figure out our next step together. We can’t risk exposure before we have a plan.” 

“Batsy, baby, I don’t know if you know this about me, but I’m slippery. I’m not spotted unless I want to be. I know you’re no stranger to disguise. I used to do theatre, you know, was gonna pursue that as a career before my father died. He was supportive of my dreams, you see, but mother dearest wasn’t having any of it. When he went, so did my last hope of living my dreams. I fell into a deep depression until I was eventually kicked out. I tried doing open mics for tips, improv nights, and eventually I was just begging on the streets. The Red Hood gang recruited me when I was at my lowest, and then, on one of the worst days of my life, I first laid eyes on you. It was like dynamite, let me tell ya, I instantly knew it was all meant to be. As I fell back into that vat, your arms outstretched above me, I knew that no performance I could have done in any theater could elicit such an emotion from my audience. I stared into your face, masked and mostly in silhouette, and knew I was happy looking into it for the rest of my life. My life turned out longer than expected, mind you, and now… Here you are. Maskless, well lit, wearing my sweatshirt…” Joker moved closer as he spoke, and Batman tried to keep his expression blank. Joker reaches towards his face, and Batman uncrosses his arms to grab his hand before he can touch him. 

“You know that won’t soften me up.” Batman says harshly, voice quiet.

“It was worth a shot.” Joker says, a small smile creeping across his face. His eyes dart to where Bruce’s hand is still around his wrist. 

“I know it’s all lies.” Bruce says, stepping closer. He intends to be intimidating, but Joker doesn’t falter.

“You really think so?” Joker’s eyebrows furrow slightly. He’s so close that Bruce has to move his eyes to see the slight frown on Joker’s face. 

“Your origin stories are always fake.” Bruce replies. His eyes move back up to meet Joker’s, which are looking down at his mouth. Bruce loosens his grip on Joker’s wrist.

“You were there for most of it.” Joker says softly, eyes moving back up to meet Bruce’s. His hand hesitantly moves forward.

“So I was.” Bruce doesn’t fight Joker, but he can hear his blood rushing in his head. His stomach twists as Joker’s hand moves forward at a snail’s pace. The moment, brief as it is, feels like an eternity as all his thoughts and all his senses are focused on the anticipation of Joker’s hand on his face. His desperation for such simple contact feels anachronic, like he’s some sexually repressed Victorian gentleman. He hates it. Joker’s pointer finger is first, a slight brush of his unnaturally smooth fingertip on his temple followed by the other three, pinky brushing his jaw, but before his thumb can touch Bruce’s face, he ducks down and side steps Joker, who is left with his hand hovering in the air, facing only the countertop Bruce was up against.

Bruce clears his throat and attempts to clear his head before Joker’s gaze catches up. His heart rate doesn’t slow down. As his sense of shame continues to build, Joker looks at him, and it all melts. Without his normal dramatics, without any exaggeration or pretense, Joker looks at him, hurt and confused. Bruce feels heavy, and he hates that, despite not being able to muster an ounce of empathy for any of Joker’s victims in who knows how long, he now feels genuine, illogical guilt over ducking out of Joker’s gentle caress. 

“We need to establish our story.” Batman says, and both of their masks are back on. 

“You said it.” Joker grumbles, his expression cold. 

“Joker…” Bruce starts but trails off. There’s nothing he can think to say. “I think our best shot might be reframing the situation with Dr. Strange.” He has to focus on business.

“ _ Your _ best shot.” 

“You don’t want Bruce Wayne locked up any more than I do.” 

“Oh, like you can’t evade the law. Give me a break, Warbucks.”

“Bruce Wayne’s public image is important.”

“To you.”

“It’s necessary to keep in tact if I want to help my city from the top.”

“You know I don’t actually care about any of that, Bats, I only care when you’re at the bottom.” Joker laughs dryly. 

“You seemed to care before. That’s how you got me here.”

“Oh great detective, you’ve almost got it! God, you’re infuriating.” Joker’s hands rake through his hair so quickly Bruce is surprised he doesn’t pull any out. 

“Am I?” He says coyly. 

“Don’t you pull that shit with me right now.” Joker says sharply before turning on his heel and walking to the couch. He picks up the remote and rewinds, finally clicking play on “Rabbit Seasoning.” 

“I need more information on Strange.”

“You’re so needy. They all think you’re so cool and formidable, you know. Not just The Really Rottens, all the citizens, all the guards… Ha! You have them all fooled.”

“Am I right to assume that you’re convinced Strange is more fascinated by exploring the psychology of Arkham’s patients than he is focused on treatment?”

“You know what they say about assuming.” 

“Am I off base?”

“You’re off kilter.” Elmer Fudd blows Daffy Duck’s beak off, and Joker rewinds the tape to watch it again. On his fifth rewind he chuckles, releasing the remote and letting the tape play normally. Elmer Fudd blows Daffy’s beak off again a few seconds later. 

“If Strange’s intent already was to manipulate me, then it makes sense to lean into that. When I get back to the cave, I can start investigating Strange, and if I can orchestrate an unearthing of all his unethical activities, then Bruce Wayne can refuse further treatment and instead focus on the restructuring of Arkham Asylum.” The quicker he figures out his alibi, the quicker he can leave. “I, as a major financial contributor, was acting undercover as a patient to better understand how to fix the facility. When doing so, I fell victim to the unorthodox practices of Dr. Hugo Strange, which eventually led to our escape.” He just needs Joker’s cooperation for a little bit longer; he needs to clear his name as quickly as possible, and then they can forget all of this. 

“Oh, so Batman will do an expose, one that coincidentally covers Bruce Wayne’s ass, on someone who is already suspicious of your identity? How does his strictly voyeuristic approach to your psych evaluation lead to a moonlit kite ride with yours truly?” Fudd blows Daffy’s beak off again. Joker is taken sharply by a short laugh; a quick, mild spasm akin to a hiccup. 

“He opened me up to someone famous for his skillful manipulation.”

Joker pauses the VHS, but remains silent.

“Bruce Wayne is privileged. He has experienced plenty of tragedy, but is still naive. He would be an easy, but rewarding target.”

“Oh, would he?” Joker’s voice is bitter, and he starts to shake. His laugh is silent at first, before the volume hits suddenly. It’s harsh, like nails and broken glass. 

“People remember Harleen. Her story made it to gossip magazines.”

“Harleen.” Joker’s voice is full of malice, guttural amidst the continuing laughter.

“What other reason would someone like Bruce Wayne escape with you?” At Bruce’s words, Joker’s laughter cuts off abruptly. In the brief, intense silence, Bruce realizes what he said. Joker slowly, stiffly turns his head, and Bruce’s stomach drops.

“‘What other reason’ indeed!” Joker exclaims, jumping to his feet with a clap of his hands. He turns to Bruce, his smile as wide and full of malice as what haunts his surviving victim’s dreams--a smile he doesn’t normally use for Batman. “Manipulation. Ah… An incredible tool, one I’m  _ transcendent _ at, as you’re well aware. Efficient, affective… A fan favorite, too! Especially when I didn’t do jack shit.” He walks towards Bruce as he speaks, and Bruce instinctively takes a step back. “I’ve heard Harley’s story. I  _ made  _ Harley’s story, and she just doesn’t know how to tell it.” Joker grabs Bruce’s shoulders, holding him in place. “‘Oh Mistah J brainwashed me, I didn’t wanna do it, any of it, but my puddin’ made me.’ Oh I made her alright, I invented her, but she was in control of her actions.  _ She’s _ the one who fell jester hat over heels for  _ me. _ The fact I took advantage of the henchperson who basically dropped herself giftwrapped at my feet? Entrepreneurial.”

“You abused her.”

“I’m a violent person who took advantage of a woman’s infatuation. Don't act like you’re not the same,  _ Brucey Wayne _ . You make me sick trying to pull off the same gag she did.” Joker starts to shake Bruce, and Batman grabs both his arms, stilling him. Joker’s glare intensifies. “I thought this was a fun change of pace! I thought we were having a good time, waiting it out until things went back to normal, but egg on my face! Apparently, now this is news to me, the only way anyone can actually care about me is if I’m manipulating them! Or, at least, that's what they all tell the rag! Oh! AND what they tell themselves to sleep at night, probably still wishing they were in my arms. Yeah, we both know I remember that. You know what woke me up? Your quickening heart rate. You’re so obvious, and yet you’re still stringing me on like a fool. It’s frankly embarrassing for both of us, darling. You’ve got us dancing around each other like deeply closeted high schoolers, and if you won't take me to the afterparty, then I'm leaving the dancefloor for the punch bowl. Hopefully someone spiked it.” Joker jerks out of Bruce's hands and manages to land a solid punch while he's off guard.

"Joker…" Physically Bruce recovers quickly, but he doesn't know what he's trying to say, what he can say. His mind is reeling, both from Joker's words and his own emotions, trying to make sense of what he wants and what he thinks is possible. His answers contradict, and the thought makes him sick.

"What are you trying to say, that you didn't mean it?" Joker laughs darkly as he closes on the space the violence left between them, staring down at Bruce, who feels unexpectedly vulnerable under Joker's cold gaze. "I know you did, and I know you don't have the gall to deny that. Oh, but don't fret, Bats!" Joker grabs his face at that, and Bruce can't muster the will to fight back. "I'll be fine! Things will go back to normal! I want to drag that reputation you care oh so much about through the mud; I want to watch your face as Bruce Wayne's life falls to pieces in my hands…" He pulls Bruce's face gradually closer until he feels Joker's breath on his nose. He feels his pulse pounding. "But hey! Is that so different from usual?" Joker's other hand cradles his face, gentle, just like before. The hatred doesn't leave his eyes and his terse smile doesn't falter. He holds Bruce's gaze for a moment of silence, a moment that feels like an eternity. He feels dizzy, his blood like ice and a sinking feeling in his gut, but part of him, more than ever, wants to close the small distance between them. Joker chokes out a low laugh and his smile drops to a scowl. "I'm just done with our little filler episode." He says, barely audible, before shoving Bruce away. 

Bruce hits the ground hard, too disoriented to catch himself, and barely turns in time to watch Joker leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the especially long wait between chapters; mental health went wild and hitting the key plot points I needed to hit turned out harder than expected. Thank you to everyone for being so patient, and for all the kind comments <3 The next chapter is the last one, and I have been eagerly awaiting it since the beginning. I hope to finish it out soon. Again, thank you for your patience.


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